Burden
by Ancalime8301
Summary: PreQuest, a young hobbit finds himself lost and in some trouble far from home. Mpreg, contains small references to prior noncon.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I have been posting this story elsewhere for a while and am nearly finished writing it, so I hope to have fairly regular updates here, on the order of once a week or so. I will do my best to remember to update in a timely manner, but feel free to poke me via email if it's been over a week and there hasn't been a peep from me. ;)

Also, while the bulk of the story is quite AU, the story will end in such a way that it will be consistent with the book (hard to believe, I know).

Warnings: This story is about underage male pregnancy, and contains semi-hermaphrodite Frodo as well as references to and brief descriptions of a non-consensual situation. If mpreg squicks you, you won't want to read this, as the story will repeatedly talk about it, refer to it, and, occasionally, wallow in it. Also note that when the time comes, there will be graphic descriptions of childbirth, including complications. That chapter will be appropriately marked as such so you can skip it if you wish.

* * *

"Captain!" Hildar burst through the door of the small cabin, the door bouncing against the wall with the force of his entrance. "We've found another halfling!" 

Aragorn had been prepared to reprimand the young Ranger for his carelessness, but the words died on his lips with Hildar's news. "Where?" he demanded, already rising from the table where he'd been conferring with Halbarad and moving to gather supplies. This would be the sixth halfling spotted wandering in the Chetwood in as many months. Aragorn suspected something was amiss in Bree, to drive so many hobbits far from their homes in desperate conditions, but he had no proof; two of the hobbits had died almost immediately from exposure, two had been frightened by the Rangers and fled (and weren't seen again), and the last had perished while in the Rangers' care, despite their best efforts.

"Near the edge of the wood, three days almost due east of Bree, and nearly a full day from here."

There might be time to save this one. "In what condition?"

"Uncertain. Eredan stayed to watch over it, while I came to bring the news. It wasn't moving when I saw it, but it was still breathing, and it had almost no supplies to speak of -only a small knapsack and a nearly empty waterskin."

Aragorn stopped and looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised. "'It'?"

Hildar shrugged. "I could not tell whether it was male or female, Captain -the leaves it was lying in obscured many of its features."

"Then let us call the hobbit 'he' until we know otherwise."

Hildar bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "Of course."

Aragorn shouldered his pack and headed for the door. "One day, you said?" Hildar nodded. "Then we should be there by midday tomorrow. Halbarad, expect us to return by nightfall the day after, hopefully with a hobbit guest."

* * *

Hildar quickly and efficiently guided the pair back to where he and his brother agreed to meet, should the hobbit remain in place, and it took just under a day, as he'd said. Aragorn made a mental note to commend his burgeoning skills once the hobbit was taken care of, but as they dropped to the ground beside Eredan, he soon had other things on his mind. 

Eredan was lying on his stomach, peering through a small gap in the underbrush at a tree with an unusually large pile of leaves at its base. "He's mostly covered in leaves right now," Eredan said without preamble. "He hasn't moved since finishing his water yesterday, so the wind somewhat buried him." He fell silent, then added softly, "It may be the only reason he didn't freeze last night."

"You haven't intervened?"

Eredan shook his head no in one short motion. "I did not desire to frighten him away. There appears to be something amiss."

"Amiss?" Aragorn eyed Eredan curiously.

"He seems to be rather... round, even for a hobbit."

"Round?" Aragorn returned his attention to the hobbit and considered for a moment. "Are you certain the hobbit is male?"

"Fairly certain. I approached last evening to put more water in his bottle because he ran out; he looks male, though rather young."

He absorbed this information in silence. "Be that as it may, we must get him to shelter. Have you seen him eat?"

"No, not a bit. And he only drank once yesterday; otherwise, he has not stirred."

"Not since you found him?"

"Nay, and likely not for a bit before that, either. But I do not think he was here more than a day before we spotted him."

There may be time yet, but they must move quickly. "We will proceed as usual. Make camp several miles north of here, and I will join you by daybreak. Understood?"

The other two nodded, then rose and stole silently away, leaving Aragorn to gain the trust of the hobbit -they'd found through the previous encounters that even one Man could frighten the poor beings into flight, so it was best to proceed with extreme caution. So Aragorn waited nearly an hour after the others left before he moved, and crept quietly toward the hobbit's tree.

Stopping several paces away, he sat and observed for a while. Eredan was right -the hobbit was indeed young, almost certainly not yet to his majority. He was also right that the hobbit appeared male, though his curly hair was long and rather unkempt. This hobbit had been fending for himself for quite some time, it seemed.

Aragorn sat thus for quite some time, watching the hobbit's face as he slept (as that was his only exposed portion), waiting for him to rouse or otherwise notice the Man's presence. The wintry day was drawing quickly toward dusk when finally there was some movement in the pile of leaves. A small hand crept out from its shelter, reaching toward the waterskin, then stopped as if its bearer remembered he'd run out of water the day before. The Ranger spoke. "It has water in it now."

The hobbit stiffened and his eyes flew open, then blinked confusedly at the Man as he tried to back up against the trunk of the tree.

"Do not worry, little one. I am called Aragorn and I am here to help you," he reassured him, speaking gently and not moving an inch.

The hobbit's voice was rough and nearly inaudible. "Why?"

Aragorn cocked his head to the side in confusion. "Why what?"

The hobbit ventured to sip from the replenished water then, and spoke a bit more strongly, though still sounded painfully weak. "Why would you want to help me?"

He'd never been asked that before, and he found himself floundering for a response. "It is my duty to care for and protect others . . . and it is my privilege to help those in need."

The hobbit wasn't impressed. "And if I wish to die?"

"If you decline my assistance, I will allow you to continue as you were. But so long as I am able, I would keep watch over you, and intercede should I deem it necessary."

"So you would interfere against my wishes. Arrogant man." His hand holding the waterskin was shaking, not from cold -he'd ceased feeling the cold- but from the effort it took to have this absurd conversation with an even more absurd Man who appeared out of nowhere with the pretense of helping him. He didn't want any help; he much preferred to simply die in his misery and have it done with. But even his body didn't want to obey him, and he found himself thirstily drinking more of the water in his skin.

Aragorn could see the hobbit shaking, and could guess the cause, so he focused in on that to draw the conversation away from his motives. "How long has it been since you have eaten?"

The hobbit shrugged, a motion that wasn't really seen itself, but inferred from the movement of his leaf cover. "Days, probably . . . I've lost track." He decided to play along, in hopes the man would leave him alone.

"Would you like something? I have supplies, and we have a camp not too far from here where I could get you something hot."

He sighed and shook his head. This, at least, he could remain steadfast on.

Seeing that line of questioning wasn't going to get him far, Aragorn changed tactics. "What is your name, little one? I'd like to at least know what name to tell those who ask what happened to you."

He closed his eyes, debating what to tell the foolish man, and decided on the truth. "Frodo. And no one will ask."

Aragorn was bothered by Frodo's matter-of-fact tone and wondered what could cause a hobbit, such family-oriented beings, to be so separated from those ties that no one would ask about his disappearance. But that could be pursued later, if given the opportunity -night was steadily approaching, and he would need to induce the hobbit to allow his care soon if he was going to be able to keep him from freezing this cloudless night. "Frodo, would you at least allow me to take you to our camp for the night, so I know you won't freeze? Tonight promises to be quite cold."

Frodo sighed and wished the man would just go away already. "You don't want anything to do with me, I promise you."

"Try me." This was certainly turning out to be the most interesting encounter he'd ever had with a hobbit, and he wasn't looking to end it just yet.

"I . . . I'm a troublemaker, a right bother . . . and an unnatural creature who doesn't deserve to be called a hobbit!" This last spilled out in a rush, despite his attempts to halt it, and he laid in misery, waiting for the man's response.

Aragorn wasn't sure what to make of this answer. The first two accusations were obviously being repeated from others' tirades -perhaps a member of his family?- but the last . . . what could he possibly mean? "I'm afraid I don't agree with you," he said gently, rising to his knees and coming slightly closer to the distressed hobbit. "I see a frightened hobbit, far away from home, who is perhaps in some sort of trouble, but who by no means deserves to be called an unnatural creature." He could see the weariness in Frodo's eyes, and for the first time wondered . . . "How old are you, Frodo?"

Frodo glanced at him, as if not sure how to respond. "What month is it?" he asked warily.

"It is... early November, by Shire Reckoning."

"Then I am nineteen."

"In that case, I must correct myself: I see a young, frightened hobbit, far away from home, who seems to be in trouble, and perhaps has given up before considering all his options." He wouldn't have guessed him to be so young! He was a mere lad by hobbit standards. Which only made him more certain that he needed help. "Well, Frodo, I still stand by my offer of warmth for the night, if you will accept it."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you very much to my reviewers, Eriala and snarryvader81 -your positive comments mean more to me than I can say. Thank you also to those who have this story on their alerts or on their favorites list; I wasn't sure about what kind of reception this story would receive, and you're proving my fears to be unfounded. Enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

Frodo did not immediately answer; instead, he laboriously began pushing himself upright. It took several minutes and more strength than he'd reckoned, but at last he was sitting up, leaning heavily against the tree. Once able to again move his limbs, he pulled aside his blanket and cloak that had been obscuring his form and revealed his over-large belly, taut and round. "Don't you understand?" he said at last. "There is something wrong with me! You don't want to associate with this," he motioned toward himself. He added bitterly, "Feel free to stare -everyone else does." 

Aragorn's first thought was that Eredan was correct about the hobbit being unusually round; his second thought speculated on what could cause such a condition. If Frodo were a lass, he'd recognize the situation immediately -two of the hobbits they'd previously found were lasses in that condition, but both had regrettably perished, one while giving birth. But since Frodo was not female, more investigation was necessary. "Frodo," he said gently, "I have some skill in the healing arts. I may be able to help you. At the least, I can try to determine what ails you." He let this sink in for a few moments, then continued, "But I cannot do that here: you must allow me to take you to a more protected place. There I will do as much as I can to help you."

The hobbit seemed to consider this as he almost visibly wilted -he was very pale, nearly grey, underneath the grime on his face, and he had to struggle to summon the strength to pull cloak and blanket back over himself. Aragorn's relief knew no bounds when Frodo nodded hesitantly. "But you must promise to let me die if it comes to that," he murmured.

"Only if it comes to that," Aragorn confirmed as he moved closer to the hobbit and reached back to loosen his blanket from his pack.

Frodo did not resist as Aragorn eased the large blanket around him, wrapping it snugly enough to be warm but not tight enough to be uncomfortable. He supposed he hould be grateful for that consideration, but couldn't quite find it in himself to care. He was so tired . . .

It was easier to lift Frodo than it should have been, which only strengthened Aragorn's resolve to do whatever he could to help the poor lad. The walk to the camp was quiet and uneventful. Frodo dozed for much of the way, once he became accustomed to the bumps and jolts involved when one is being carried. Aragorn walked as carefully as possible, mindful of the hobbit's comfort, so it took a bit more time than usual to traverse the distance to camp. The way was well lit by the light of the nearly full moon, and the spot was one they'd used for camp in the past, so Aragorn found it easily. Hildar rose to greet him, explaining that Eredan was out on patrol, but they'd fetched water and laid out their bedrolls so all would be ready for the hobbit.

Once the still-sleeping Frodo was settled on the bedrolls not far from the small fire, Hildar withdrew as well, so as not to overwhelm the hobbit, but remained within earshot, should anything be needed. And so Aragorn was again alone with Frodo. He quietly watched him sleep for a moment, then set to mixing up a thin porridge -if Frodo hadn't eaten anything in days, he wouldn't be able to stomach much, but porridge was generally easy to keep down. While the porridge cooked, Aragorn set to steeping some herbs. Since he did not yet know what ailed the hobbit, he was limited in his choices, and decided to stick with a few restoratives that would help Frodo recover his strength more quickly. This infusion he would add to the porridge, perhaps with a bit of honey to mask the herbal taste.

He periodically checked on Frodo during the food preparation; the lad slept soundly (but Aragorn would feel more at ease once he knew the hobbit had eaten something). It was near midnight by the time the porridge was ready and cooled enough to eat. Aragorn poured a small portion in a cup and fetched a spoon before sitting next to Frodo. He gently shook the hobbit's shoulder, saying, "Frodo, wake up."

Frodo was startled from slumber by a large hand shaking him, and he shrank back from it even before opening his eyes. He heard, "Easy now, it's only me," and ventured to open his eyes. The hand had left and he found himself relaxing slightly as he began to remember where he was.

"Are you awake?" Aragorn asked after a few moments. He hadn't entirely expected to startle Frodo that badly, and was anxious to avoid worsening the situation. A small nod was his response. "Are you warm enough?" This merited a shrug. "Can you sit up? I have some porridge for you." The blanket bundle heaved a sigh but began to stir.

Frodo did well -he got almost all the way up before Aragorn intervened and had him lean against him for support. Once Frodo seemed settled, Aragorn brought forth the porridge. "Now, let's take this slowly. Do you need me to help you?"

Frodo bit his lip in thought, then nodded. They quickly fell into a pattern of offering a spoonful, reluctant acceptance, and slow consumption until Frodo turned his head and refused any more. He'd nearly finished the portion in the cup, which Aragorn deemed more than sufficient for the moment. He put the cup aside and offered his waterskin, which Frodo accepted without hesitation.

Once Frodo drank his fill, he yawned and allowed himself to settle against Aragorn. The Man's coat was softer than its weatherbeaten appearance would have suggested, and made a passable pillow. He was quickly falling into sleep when he heard, "Are you warm enough?" He just shrugged; he didn't pay any attention to that anymore. He felt more than heard the Man's sigh, then felt the arm supporting his back move around his shoulder.

A gentle touch passed over his forehead, cheeks, nose, and eartips to judge their temperature. Then a teasing voice said, "Now where are your hands in this heap?" His hands reluctantly made an appearance and were judged acceptable. "And your feet?" He pointed toward where his toes were making the blanket twitch; Aragorn had to stretch a bit, but was able to reach without allowing Frodo to fall over (for if the Man let go, he would certainly end up on the ground with as tired as he was).

"Your feet are rather cold, Frodo," Aragorn said after a moment. "If you'll let me help you lie down, I can get something to remedy that."

He only nodded, and was soon reclining on the bedrolls once more. He watched with slight interest as Aragorn dug through his back, finally bringing forth two long, grey things.

"I know this isn't hobbit custom," he said as he returned and squatted at Frodo's feet, "but these socks should keep your toes from falling off, at least." He grinned, but Frodo could only watch, somewhat perplexed. He'd never worn socks before.

When the socks were on (going right up to his knees and a little beyond, with length to spare), Frodo moved his feet experimentally. How odd. His foot fur was being rubbed the wrong way, and he could feel his embarrassingly jagged toenails catching in the woolen threads, but he did have to admit he felt a bit warmer (now that he was paying attention to that sensation).

Speaking of sensations, he felt like what he'd eaten was trying to come back up and he swallowed uneasily. When the feeling continued, he shakily pushed himself up.

"Are you all right?" Aragorn asked, his concern evident.

"Feels like I'll be sick," he said miserably.

Aragorn was at his side in an instant. "Does sitting up help?"

He had to wait before answering, to see if it did help or not, but at length he nodded. "Makes it stay down," he murmured, closing his eyes and concentrating on making the feeling stop. He felt the blankets being tucked more securely, then was lifted and placed on the Man's lap. He stiffened and was brought abruptly to the question: does he trust this Ranger? He is completely at the Man's mercy, and while he dislikes the situation, Aragorn has been kind thus far. He would have to trust him, and hope he would end up no worse off -though worse off would be dead, and perhaps that wouldn't be so bad...

"Are you all right?" Aragorn asked, feeling Frodo stiffen, thinking maybe he needed to be sick. But the hobbit nodded, closed his eyes, and appeared to relax, so he settled in for a watchful night.

Frodo slept uneasily, seeming to wake every time the Ranger so much as took a deep breath. Aragorn asked frequently if all was well, Frodo always nodded in assent, so after a while the Man stopped asking. Instead, he would offer a drink of water, a bit of porridge, and so made the best of the hobbit's wakefulness.

When Frodo was awake around dawn, Aragorn suggested they get an early start and Frodo agreed. Frodo ate the remaining porridge without complaint, but when Aragorn made ready to pick him up, he said hesitantly, "I... I need to, uh, go visit the woods for a moment, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Aragorn assured him, and took him to the edge of the woods to properly address matters. He found this encouraging; though Frodo was too weak to do much unaided, he was responding appropriately to what he'd consumed, and thus would likely recover well, given a chance to rest.

Once they were again moving through the woods, Frodo found himself falling readily into sleep -perhaps because he knew the Man couldn't do anything to him without dropping him or stopping or both, and he knew he'd wake up then. The day passed quickly, as he barely woke and Aragorn seemed content to let him sleep. He did not fully rouse until the rhythmic footfalls in frozen grass and leaves changed to the hollow sound of boots on a wood floor and he was laid on something soft. He looked up to see Aragorn pulling a few more blankets over him. The Man smiled at him. "Just rest, Frodo. We'll take good care of you."

He probably shouldn't fully trust him, but Frodo found it difficult to be wary at the moment. "It's been months since I've been in a bed," he sighed and, pulling the blankets closer to his chin, he went back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: In this portion, Frodo tells how he ended up wandering in the woods. It involves some unpleasantness involving ruffians in Bree, but since Frodo is narrating, it doesn't go into much detail so I hope it won't be too disturbing. Chapters like this contribute to the story's relatively high rating.

* * *

For the next two days, Frodo spent much of his time in the oblivion of sleep. During the day, Aragorn would wake him every couple of hours to eat something, but at night his sleep was only disturbed by the need to use the chamber pot. As the second day wore on and he started feeling less tired, Frodo grew more aware of his surroundings, even in sleep. The low murmur of voices, the scrape of a spoon in a pot, the crackle of the fire filtered into his consciousness, the familiar sounds putting him more at ease than any of Aragorn's reassurances could.

When he was awake, he curiously surveyed his new situation. His bed was no more than a low cot (though it suited him just fine) and was cut off from the rest of the room by a dark green curtain that had been in use for a while, judging by the sporadic moth-eaten holes, some of the largest of which had been clumsily mended in varying colors of thread. The edge of the curtain by his head wasn't pulled all the way to the wall, so he could peer through the crack to see the fireplace and its hearth bathed in a red glow.

Sometimes Aragorn would be crouched in front of the fire, stirring a pot or carefully stoking the fire so whatever he was cooking would cook thoroughly but wouldn't scorch. Sometimes he would see another Ranger, not quite as tall as Aragorn but resembling him in his demeanor and the color of his eyes, who would speak quietly to Aragorn, then go off somewhere. He never disturbed Frodo, for which Frodo was grateful. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to handle several strange men all around him at once. As long as it was just Aragorn, he could manage. For now.

Aragorn noted the hobbit's increasing alertness the first time when he caught a glimpse of a blue eye peering at him through the gap in the curtain. He grinned to himself and shook his head. They had a curious one, to be sure, so hopefully he would willingly cooperate with the needed exam to find the cause of his ills. But first, a bath would be necessary -it is difficult to draw any conclusions from a lad that appears to have taken one too many jumps in a mud puddle.

When Aragorn stepped inside the confines of the curtain to bring Frodo his breakfast on the third day, Frodo was already awake. "Good morning," he greeted him as he carefully put the bowl and mug he carried onto the floor so he could help Frodo sit up to eat, as usual. "Feeling better?" he asked once the hobbit was more upright.

"A bit," Frodo answered cautiously, his voice rough with sleep and lack of use. He was feeling a little less tired, at least, but there still remaind the question of what was going on with him . . . and the Man had promised to find out . . . "Do you know what's wrong with me yet?" he asked petulantly, pouting at the Man -it often worked with his aunts, anyway.

Aragorn chuckled and handed him his bowl of morning porridge before perching on the edge of the bed. "No, not yet, but I hope to remedy that shortly. If you are feeling up to it, I would like you to have a bath, then I will later assess your condition."

While Frodo accepted the bowl when it was offered, he had to stare at it for a moment before he decided he was indeed hungry enough to want to eat it. His hands still shook a bit when feeding himself, especially when trying to get the spoon to his mouth, so he held the bowl almost directly under his chin and scooped it from there. Once that was settled, he focused on the Man's words. "A bath? How will you manage that?" he said dubiously.

"I'm afraid it will be little more than a cloth and some warm water, but I am sure I can get you somewhat cleaner."

Frodo scowled and muttered, "I must look a sight if you're willing to wash me." He paused and scrutinized the Ranger. "'Specially since you could use a bath yourself."

Aragorn laughed. "I'm sure I do, but I'm not the one who needs looking at."

Frodo shrugged and continued eating. "Then what?"

"Then I find out what ails you and try to help, if I can."

Frodo nodded slowly. "I understand," he said softly. Suddenly inexplicably nervous, he pushed the bowl back at the Man. "When do we start?"

"As soon as you're ready," he answered, standing and pushing aside the curtain.

With some curiosity, Frodo surveyed the room. The other Man he'd seen before was crouched before the fire, arranging pots of water, so Frodo let his eyes pass on by him. Beyond the fireplace was a rumpled bedroll in the corner, underneath a simple wood ladder that led to an opening in the ceiling that was covered with a board. Somewhat in the middle of the room was a rickety table and four chairs. He could not tell if there was anything in the far corner, on the other side of the door that marked the middle of the opposite wall. In the closer corner was a battered trunk-like object that he assumed must contain linens or the like. Light filtering in from a few small windows cut high up in the walls shed a weak glow on the room's contents; it must be cloudy, for daylight to appear so, Frodo figured.

By the time he'd finished his assessment, Aragorn had brought a chair and a pan of water to the bedside. The other Man approached and handed him a bar of soap. Before he could retreat, Aragorn said, "Frodo, I'd like you to meet Halbarad, a trusted companion and one of my kin."

Halbarad bowed in greeting, and Frodo bobbed his head in return -he couldn't do a proper bow at the moment. "Frodo . . ." he paused, uncertain, then forged ahead. "Frodo, at your service and your family's," he said courteously.

Introductions now aside, Aragorn got down to business. "Which would you prefer done first, head or feet?" he asked briskly.

"Feet?" Frodo said hesitantly. His head itched something awful, but those socks were a nuisance. In moments Aragorn had him turned around and unwrapped from the blankets enough that his legs hung freely off the bed while still allowing him to lean against the wall, if needed. Having the socks off felt glorious, and he wriggled his toes just to remind himself what it was supposed to feel like.

Aragorn chuckled and asked, "Better already?"

Frodo blushed at being caught acting so immaturely, but nodded.

"I think you'll like it even more once we get them clean." He guided the furry feet into the shallow basin and poured warm water in until it was ankle deep. Then he let them soak a bit while he washed from knee to ankle. It took a bit of scrubbing and several passes with the washcloth, but at last he was able to defeat the grime. "Look!" he said in mock wonder. "There's skin under here!"

Frodo, who'd been craning his neck and trying to see what the Man was doing without really moving, giggled at the joke.

Aragorn lifted a dripping foot from the basin. "Now we'll see what's under all this grime. But first, do the toes still work?" Frodo obediently wiggled his toes. "What about the ankles? Can they go all the way around and back again?" Frodo moved his ankles. "Ah, excellent. I deem the feet suitable for washing," Aragorn said exaggeratedly and with a wink.

Frodo smiled a bit at the Man's antics, and as Aragorn started scrubbing his feet, working out the tangles in his foothair and kneading the stiffness from his soles, he found himself relaxing. He rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and let himself drift.

Some time later, he heard Aragorn loudly whisper, "I think I put the hobbit to sleep."

He opened his eyes and retorted, "It's only that you were so boring that I thought the time better spent to rest my eyes."

Halbarad snickered and Aragorn looked hurt. "I ought to miss a spot on purpose, just for that," he teased. "But since you're awake, I need you to take off your trousers for me."

Frodo froze and tried not to look terrified. He must have succeeded, for Aragorn seemed to take it as confusion. "I want to wash a bit more of your legs before you turn around. Don't worry, I won't go up too far -we'll do the rest later, with the curtain pulled. Is that all right?"

Frodo nodded hesitantly, unable to speak, and fervently prayed nothing would happen. His fingers fumbled at the makeshift tie -he'd had to make adjustments when his pants would no longer button- but he managed to undo it and awkwardly slide them off his hips and partway down his legs.

Aragorn took over from there -he guessed rightly that Frodo would have trouble reaching any further- then looked at the very worn and extremely filthy trousers a moment, eyebrows raised. "I suppose this is your only pair?" he ventured, glancing at Frodo, who nodded meekly. "We will try to wash them, then, but they may not survive the attempt." He dropped them on the floor and took up his washcloth again. "What color are they supposed to be?" he asked as he washed above Frodo's knees to the bottoms of his underdrawers.

"Hmm... brown? Yes, brown," Frodo said after some thought, trying not to pay attention to the large hand creeping up his leg. But then the Man was putting aside the cloth and regarding him thoughtfully. Frodo returned the gaze quizzically, uncertain what was passing through the Man's head. After what seemed like an age, but was probably more like a few minutes, Aragorn stood and began pulling the curtain back across, and Frodo felt a brief stab of panicked fear.

"It would be best if you undressed now, so you do not have to sit up again before we are finished," Aragorn said, pulling the curtain to and turning to face him. Frodo searched his face for any hint of ill will, and found none. "Halbarad," Aragorn said, raising his voice so the other would hear, "build up the fire a bit, please? We don't want him to catch a chill." Murmured assent drifted from the other side of the curtain.

Frodo reluctantly prepared to divest himself of his clothing and was startled when Aragorn spoke again. "While you undress, I will find something for you to wear until we can wash your clothing." And he vanished around the curtain. Baffled by the Man's behavior, Frodo hurriedly undressed and pulled the blankets up around him to hide himself.

Aragorn returned with a dark red tunic and some new water. "It will be large on you," he said apologetically, draping it on the back of his chair, "but it should cover enough until your clothes are ready to wear." He picked up the discarded items from the bed and moved to drop them with the trousers, but paused and looked curiously at the shirt. "Frodo, is this a nightshirt?" he asked with some bewilderment, fingering the thin material.

Frodo blushed and nodded, his mouth dry. "My day shirts wouldn't button anymore," he managed by way of explanation before he stopped and looked away, embarrassed at the measures he'd had to take in his desperation. No self-respecting being wore his nightshirt in public! A gentle hand rubbed his back, and he heard Aragorn say, "That was very smart of you, Frodo. I don't think I would've thought of it."

Frodo shrugged, unconvinced, and the other large hand drew his chin up until he looked at the Man. He was mortified to realize there were tears streaking down his cheek, but Aragorn just wiped them away with his thumb and said gently, "Don't be ashamed, Frodo. You did what you had to do." He let that sink in a moment, then added, "Now let's get you turned around so we can do something about your poor hair."

As Aragorn worked on the matted curls, he asked Frodo how he'd come to be wandering alone in the forest, from the beginning, if he didn't mind. Frodo hesitated at first, but slowly and guardedly related the relevant bits -he didn't see the need to tell the Man absolutely everything, after all, since it wasn't his business. In particular, he side-stepped having to provide any details about his family.

So he started with the part where he began to noticeably put on weight. "They saw how little I ate at meals, and must've decided I was raiding the pantries or stealing from farmers again, so they made me do extra chores and miss meals for something I didn't even do. But I still put on weight, and I knew I had to leave before they locked me in my room for good, or kicked me out entirely," he said miserably, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes closed. Somehow it was easier to say with his eyes closed.

"So I saved them the trouble. I took a few things and left, and left behind a note that I was going to visit a cousin, but I went the other way, out of the Shire. I couldn't stay and listen to the gossip about 'that naughty lad.' I ended up in Bree."

Here he had to pause for a deep breath, trying not to let his dislike for the town be too evident. The hand supporting his head -he lay with his head off the bed to keep the linens from getting wet, and Aragorn held his head up so he didn't strain his neck- moved massagingly, soothingly, and after a minute, Frodo continued. "At first I could get some odd jobs here and there for a bit of money, though it was never enough to rent a room, so I slept where I could. But then-"

"A moment, Frodo," Aragorn interjected. "When did you leave your home?"

"It was . . . just after Midyear's Day, I think." He met the Man's eyes for a moment before closing his again. "Yes, that was it. It was warm, so I almost didn't even bring my coat. I didn't really think I'd be wandering this long." He sighed, unsettled. "For the first month or two I could get odd jobs, but I . . . got rounder, and no one would hire me any more. I asked one Man why, and he said it was because I looked like I'd not work hard enough to be worth the pay, and that I must be stealing if I could look well-fed and still claim that I needed the money to live on."

Aragorn, having finished with Frodo's hair, wiped the hobbit's face and made no comment about the extra moisture he found there. When the hobbit did not resume speaking, he said, "I'm done here, so we need to move you a bit." He helped Frodo roll onto his side, facing the wall, so he could get his back and left side without having to adjust again.

Even after that, it took Frodo a bit to gather the courage to continue. "I didn't have much money, and soon ran out. I bartered what I could, but I didn't have much to barter, either. So I ended up doing what those Men thought I was doing all along. I had to steal what I couldn't beg from kind women," he said bitterly. "Every night I'd ask my parents' forgiveness for doing such a thing... they'd taught me better than that."

"What happened to your parents?" Aragorn seized the opening to ask what he'd wondered from the story's beginning.

"They died," Frodo said dully. "Seven years ago."

Several things now made sense, but he didn't say that. "I'm very sorry," he said earnestly, knowing that grief too well.

"I tried to raid pantries,where there'd be less chance of getting caught," Frodo resumed as if he'd never stopped. "But Breefolk don't keep their food the same way as Shirefolk. Not much can be gotten from outside the house. For a bit I could get things from gardens, but most harvested their crop much too quickly for me to get anything while it was ripe. So I had to snitch from market stalls. It was tough to get anything without being seen, but I could do it, most of the time. It's like they never thought to watch for someone half their size," he chuckled humorlessly, so caught up in the memory of recent past that he didn't even notice Aragorn was wiping down his buttocks and checking for rashes or sores in the cleft.

"It worked well until I got about as big as I am now," he continued. "I got clumsy and would trip over my own feet. So the last time I tried to go for an apple, I almost fell over and knocked the entire pile onto the ground. The stall keeper saw, of course, and started yelling and cursing and came after me. So I ran. All I had was already on my back, so I ran and just didn't stop. There were angry voices behind me all the way through the town and even partway into the woods. Then they stopped and I kept going until I couldn't go on any longer. I was sick, and ended up under that tree." He paused as if to stop, then added, "I think you know the rest."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully as he had Frodo roll onto his other side briefly, to wash that arm and side, then settled him on his back. "Frodo, this time I'm going to wash you, then I need to feel around a bit. Please tell me if I'm hurting you."

Frodo nodded, biting his lip, then clenched his eyes closed as Aragorn began his work. He'd never been able to bring himself to touch his stomach since it got so large -the change terrified him, and to feel it was more than he had the courage to do- and to have a stranger thoroughly examining the area felt odd. He shuddered, and immediately the cloth near his hip stopped moving and Aragorn's voice asked, "Are you cold?" Frodo shook his head no, and the cloth resumed, but stopped without going any lower. "I'll do that last," the voice explained as if hearing his thoughts.

Then the hands were back up at his shoulders, gently prodding as they worked their way downward. When the hands reached the unfamiliar territory of his stomach, curiosity got the better of his nervousness and he opened his eyes for a peek. The Man's face was intent as his fingers felt for what he could not see, though Frodo could not tell from the expression if he'd learned anything or not. He let his head fall back on the pillow, looking over at the wall, up at the ceiling, over at the play of firelight on the blanket to distract himself from the anxiety of wondering.

Aragorn frowned and prodded a little deeper, ever attentive for signs of discomfort from the hobbit. What his touch was telling him couldn't possibly be true -could it? Then the lump he'd been exploring visibly moved, and he had to concede it was perhaps possible. Bending down even further, he pressed his ear close and listened hard. After a moment his hand sought Frodo's wrist finding the pulsing there and concentrating to compare the two. They were different. And that usually meant only one thing. He straightened, both hands exploring, more purposefully this time, until he was nearly certain he had found the answer. He just wondered if he would ever learn how such a thing was possible. There was one more thing he could test, to be sure . . . "Frodo, are you sore here?" he asked, now pressing the area around the left nipple.

"A . . . a bit," Frodo answered hesitantly.

"And on the other side as well?"

"Yes."

Aragorn nodded to himself. "Frodo, would you bend your knees please? I need to finish washing." He then pushed the knees apart so he could reach with ease and check for anything unusual.

Frodo felt his face flush as his legs were pushed aside to allow the Man access to his private regions. His heart pounded as he felt that dratted cloth slide along his skin, and he had to fight the urge to kick the Man and try to escape. After all, it would do him no good to run off without any clothes. The Man's voice interrupted his train of thought. "Frodo, how long have you had this opening here?" The cloth touched the area in question.

Frodo didn't know what to make of the inquiry. "For as long as I can remember," he answered honestly, wondering what on earth that had to do with anything. "Why?"

There was a pause before Aragorn answered. "I've not seen such an opening on a male before -it resembles the opening that females possess for the birthing of babes." Another pause, then, "Are all male hobbits equipped thus?"

Frodo was taken aback. "I . . . I don't know. I never thought to ask." He felt foolish and quite stupid, and his face heated as he realized he may have always been an anomaly in his family. It almost made him want to cry.

"Frodo."

He looked up and met Aragorn's eyes over the swell of his stomach.

"With your leave, I would like to investigate the opening more closely. I believe it may explain your condition."

Frodo's mouth was dry, but he whispered, "All right."


	4. Chapter 4

Many thanks again to my reviewers and those who have seen fit to add this little story to their alerts/favorites. Your support is greatly appreciated.

Warning: This chapter contains an up-close-and-personal examination of Frodo to determine what is 'wrong' with him, with much detail and embarrassment on Frodo's part. It is rated a strong PG-13 for non-sexual intimate views and genital hermaphroditism.

* * *

Aragorn came alongside the bed and pulled a blanket over Frodo's upper body. "I will need to move you down to the end of the bed so I can see more easily," he said by way of warning before scooping Frodo up and moving him down until his knees hung off the end. Aragorn put another blanket across his lap before departing around the curtain. 

He reappeared moments later with a lantern and fresh basin of water, both of which he placed near Frodo's dangling feet. He brought the chair to the end of the cot as well, and seated himself upon it right in front of Frodo's knees, then bent and washed his hands in the basin before removing the blanket from Frodo's lap. "This will be uncomfortable for you, so I will be as brief as possible," Aragorn said reassuringly. "Now, I need you to bring your feet up and put them on my knees. Yes, just like that," he encouraged as Frodo slowly complied, one furry foot at a time. "Can you slide a bit closer to me?" Frodo tried, but Aragorn had to help, as it was difficult to get adequate leverage with his feet perched on the Man's knees.

Before Frodo could quite grasp that his rear was nearly off the bed, Aragorn moved his knees outward, taking Frodo's feet with him until Frodo was quite certain the Man could see absolutely everything. Reflexively, he pressed his knees together to minimize the exposure, but two large, warm hands were there immediately, prying his kneecaps apart. "No, Frodo. I need them apart."

Frodo inched them apart, but still the hands were there, pushing further. When he thought it plenty far enough, he stopped and pushed back against the hands. "Frodo, I know you don't like this, but you need to cooperate. I don't want to hurt you. Now, I need your knees as far apart as you can manage."

Frodo heaved a sigh, refusing to move any further at first, but relented and allowed his legs to be positioned. And he ended up splayed like a turkey about to be gutted... He could feel himself flushing with embarrassment -and he'd thought the position before was bad! This was absolutely humiliating. Then there were fingers touching him and he wanted to die on the spot. He stared at the rough wood ceiling and waited impatiently for it to be over.

Aragorn had been surprised to find the opening on the lad, but it could certainly explain much. Now, as he gingerly fingered the opening's folds and prepared to delve more deeply, he only hoped Frodo would still speak to him afterward. They had much preparation ahead of them if he found what he now expected.

The passage that met Aragorn's questing fingers felt identical to that of a female, which boded well. As he pushed his fingers inside, he scooted even closer to the hobbit so he could put his other hand atop Frodo's belly and feel again, this time also feeling from inside.

When the Man said he would 'investigate the opening more closely', Frodo hadn't realized it would involve all of this! Not only were those large fingers inside, pushing and pinching and intruding where they certainly didn't belong, the other hand was prodding from above and squishing things around in the most uncomfortable fashion. The fingers pushed further in, and he couldn't help tensing, trying to prevent the additional pain he knew must be coming.

And, indeed, the fingers stopped, but then the Man said, "Frodo, I need you to relax or I can't feel things properly."

Frodo didn't move. "You didn't say you'd be sticking your fingers all over!" he accused.

Aragorn sighed. "I'm sorry, Frodo, but this is very necessary. I must do this to fully determine your condition. And if you relax, it will not be nearly as painful."

"Promise?" he asked petulantly.

"I promise."

"I'll try," Frodo said reluctantly, trying to make himself relax despite every instinct insisting he do the opposite.

After a moment, the fingers moved slightly, and Aragorn's voice said, "Very good, Frodo. It will only be a little longer if you can stay relaxed."

Frodo might have been reassured, if not for the fact that he could feel every word spoken by the stirring of air perilously close to his private areas. His skin prickled and he tried very hard to not think about how close the Man's face must be... his face flamed and for a brief moment, he was grateful that his stomach hid his face from Aragorn. The pushing and prodding continued, but he had to admit that fighting the instinct to tense did help a tiny bit. But only a tiny bit. The rest of him was still flushed with the humiliation of his predicament.

Aragorn found that deep inside, everything seemed to be in proper condition for the circumstances, but it was impossible to tell for sure without proper tools, which he did not have here. His investigation by feel did not yield all of the information he'd hoped; the opening to the womb was slightly soft, and by the size of the womb, he could guess the hobbit was well along, but his inexperience with normal hobbit progression did not allow as precise a determination as he might've hoped. Particularly since, judging by Frodo's physical appearance and the proportions both external and internal, he seemed almost too large... it did not make sense, but then, none of this did. They would just have to hope for the best.

He withdrew his fingers and helped Frodo put his feet down before washing his hands again. Frodo watched him warily from where he lay awkwardly, not entirely on the bed. Aragorn helped him sit up, saying, "I'm done. Let's get you dressed." He offered him the shirt he'd fetched earlier, and Frodo slowly moved to pull it on. "Do you have another pair of drawers?" Aragorn asked.

Frodo nodded before pulling the shirt over his head. "In my pack," came his muffled answer.

When Aragorn returned with the garment, Frodo was wearing the shirt, or perhaps it was wearing him, as it was far too long in the sleeves, the neck was so large that it slipped down over one shoulder, and the rest pooled around his hips. Wordlessly Aragorn sat on the chair and slid the drawers onto Frodo's legs up to his knees, then said, "Lie down and I'll pull them up for you."

"I'd rather stand and do it myself," Frodo asserted, meeting Aragorn's gaze evenly.

"If you think you can stand," Aragorn conceded, and helped him slide off the end of the cot.

And Frodo could indeed stand on his own, though tying his underdrawers was challenging with the large shirt in the way. But he succeeded and let the shirt fall to its full length.

Aragorn had to resist the urge to laugh at the sight of Frodo in his tunic -in back, the shirt dragged on the floor behind Frodo's heels, though the front was held up off the ground by his protruding stomach. The slitted opening in the neck ended somewhere near the top of his stomach, the single tie at least halfway down his chest (where on a Man it would be just past the collarbone). In short, the small hobbit was nearly lost in the shirt.

Aragorn was startled from his reverie when Frodo demanded, "Well? What's wrong with me, then?"

Aragorn coughed and said, "Before I tell you that you need to sit down." Frodo stared at him quizzically, but allowed himself to be urged onto the edge of the bed, looking at him expectantly. "This may be hard to accept," Aragorn began slowly, "but everything I found points to only one conclusion. You are pregnant, Frodo." He waited for a reaction, but none came. Frodo continued to silently look at him, appearing almost amused. Perhaps this wasn't as strange to the hobbit as he'd feared . . . "You have heard of this before, then?" he asked.

Frodo snickered. "No." Then he seemed to realize the Man was in earnest. "Surely you jest!" he said, amusement giving way to panic.

"I would not jest about such a thing," Aragorn replied.

"That is not possible!" Frodo cried.

"You are proof to the contrary, Frodo," Aragorn maintained calmly. "Here, feel for yourself. The babe is moving," he said, grasping Frodo's hand and guiding it to his belly. Even through Frodo's hand he could feel movement, so he knew Frodo must be able to feel it, too. He watched Frodo's face anxiously as the hobbit's eyes widened and his face drained of all color. A moment later he was glad he'd been seated himself, as it was much easier to catch an insensate hobbit from that position. He easily lifted Frodo, carried him back to the head of the bed, and gently laid him down and covered him with a blanket. Then he fetched the chair and the basin of water, which had cooled, and settled down to bathe Frodo's face to rouse him.

After several minutes Frodo opened his eyes and looked over at the Man, then laboriously rolled onto his side to face Aragorn. "So it's really true?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Frodo lay in silent thought, trying to grasp the implications of his situation, and not entirely succeeding.

Aragorn interrupted his contemplation. "But, Frodo, I am not completely certain how soon you may give birth, and that would be helpful to make preparations. My examination seemed to indicate you could be very near birth, but I am not familiar with hobbit childbearing. Do you know when you might have conceived?"

Frodo looked at him blankly before shaking his head slowly.

Aragorn thought back to Frodo's tale. "You said you left home around Midsummer because your stomach was becoming noticeable."

Frodo nodded in affirmation.

"Do you know how long hobbit ladies carry their babes? Among my people, it is around nine months."

Frodo looked lost in thought before he ventured, "Eight or nine, maybe? I don't know -lasses keep such things among themselves."

Aragorn chuckled. "I'm sure they do. But that helps -if it's eight or nine, then it might have been around, say, March or April. Can you remember being intimate with anyone around that time?" He phrased it carefully, unsure of hobbit habit when speaking of such things.

Frodo frowned. "I haven't been 'intimate', as you call it, with anyone . . . " he trailed off and his face whitened.

Aragorn was momentarily grateful Frodo was still lying down, but that thought fled when Frodo buried his face in the pillow and whimpered. "Frodo, what is it?" he asked worriedly, putting a reassuring hand on the shaking shoulder.

Long minutes passed before Frodo had composed himself enough to speak. His face was tear-streaked when he turned it from the pillow, but he didn't care anymore. "My-my uncle brought me to Bree along with some others, to prepare for spring planting." His breath hitched, then he continued, "He brought me to 'make me useful', but they almost never allowed me to set foot outside of our room at the inn. So I snuck out the window one evening when they were in the common room. I just wanted to see the town a bit." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't even out of the alley when a group of Men cornered me. The leader grabbed me and . . . and forced himself on me while . . . while the rest watched . . . " his voice grew faint and he buried his face in the pillow again.

Aragorn rubbed Frodo's back, trying not to notice how well he could feel the lad's ribs, even through shirt and blanket, and grew very, very angry. The other hobbits he'd tried to help had been unwilling to speak of their reason for straying so far from home, silenced by shame even when near death. Now he knew without a doubt that the hobbits wandering in the Chetwood were all victims of the same band of ruffians, preying on hobbits, and this poor lad was likely not the last so molested. "Frodo," he tried to speak calmly so he did not frighten his small charge, "did you see the faces of those who attacked you?"

"No," Frodo whispered, "It was dark, and most of them stayed out of sight, though I could hear them well enough." He shuddered.

"No matter," Aragorn soothed him. "I believe I know who did this, and believe me when I say they will pay." Frodo looked at him again, teary eyes wide as he hiccupped and sniffled. "Oh, yes, they will pay," he repeated, whether for Frodo's benefit or his he wasn't sure.

From behind the curtain came a polite cough, then Halbarad said, "Captain, Hildar and Eredan have returned with the items requested."

Aragorn nodded in satisfaction. "Have them put everything on the table, then prepare themselves. They are to head to Bree on the morrow." Perfect timing, this.

"Very good, Captain," Halbarad acknowledged and his footsteps retreated.

Frodo found himself watching Aragorn with fascination. He'd never seen anyone look so fierce as the Man did, yet he could somehow tell that ferocity would not be turned on him. That impression was reinforced when Aragorn gently wiped the tears from his face before he patted his back and rose. "I'll get you something to eat -it's been a while since you had breakfast, after all." He winked and stepped out of sight.

Once past the curtain, Aragorn felt the fury ebb and his shoulders slumped as he understood the difficulty of the task before him. Frodo's child was part Man and, like the others he'd attended, there was a significant chance that neither Frodo nor the babe would survive the birth as a result. Never in his experience had a hobbit successfully birthed such a child. Frodo being male only added to his trepidation.

Halbarad looked up from where he sorted the plants and herbs on the table and inclined his head in inquiry. Aragorn shook his head slightly -not now. He was well aware that hobbits had hearing to rival the Elves'. Instead, he approached the fireplace to survey what was cooking. Seeing a stew that looked ready, he scooped some into a bowl and took it to Frodo, who was already sitting up in bed. "Here you are," Aragorn said, handing him the bowl and a spoon. "If you need more or need anything else, just call out. I need to speak to my men about a few things."

Frodo nodded, then spoke plaintively. "Please don't tell anyone what is wrong with me. I-I can hardly fathom it myself, and don't want any attention from the others because of it."

Aragorn nodded briskly. "Of course, but I would beg leave to inform one person -I shall require assistance when your time comes and it would be better for that individual to be prepared."

Frodo hesitantly assented. "But only one."

"Only one," he promised, and stepped out into the main room once more. Halbarad had finished separating the herbs that needed drying from the rest, and was stirring the stew. "Shall we take these up?" Aragorn asked.

"Certainly," Halbarad agreed.

Once both Men had climbed the ladder and were seated, safely ensconced in the cramped attic space, Aragorn spoke. "Frodo is pregnant, and will likely deliver within a month."

Halbarad raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

Aragorn sighed heavily. "There is more -the child is not fully hobbit. Frodo was accosted by a band of Men in Bree."

"And you believe it was Tola and his men." It was not a question.

"Yes. They're a band of troublemakers, the lot of them, and such an attack would not be beneath them." He paused, his hands also falling still from their task of removing newly-dried leaves from the trays so the fresh plants could take their place. "I also believe they are responsible for driving those other hobbits from Bree."

Halbarad nodded. "It would make sense. They ordinarily continue in their deeds until persuaded otherwise." He glanced at Aragorn's stony expression. "So you send Hildar and Eredan to Bree to stop them."

"More than stop them," he corrected. "I mean to have them finally executed for their crimes. I will send Hildar and Eredan to Beleg, who has been monitoring Tola from afar, and leave it to them to determine on what charge they will be arrested and hung." He laughed darkly. "And if they are so lucky as to catch Tola and his miscreants hurting a hobbit, they are permitted to kill them on the spot."

"The sooner rid of that menace, the better," Halbarad agreed softly.

Both Rangers continued their work until the new herbs were racked and ready for drying next to the brick chimney. Then Aragorn critically surveyed the stock in the small herbal chest. "We will need to take this down with us," he said at last. "I need better light. And Halbarad, I will need you to help me prepare for the hobbit's delivery. We will need more towels, blankets, and a few things from the apothecary. I will make a list, if you are will to go in my stead to Bree. I would go myself, but-"

"Frodo is most accustomed to you," Halbarad finished for him. "I will certainly acquire whatever is needed."

"On your way back, would pay a visit to Peony and find out if she has infant garments we could borrow? If the babe survives, it will need clothing."

"If?" Halbarad questioned.

"There is a good chance neither the babe nor Frodo will survive. I will do what I can, but it has always gone ill in the past."

"In the past you were not prepared and you were not present for the entire process," Halbarad countered. "Have faith in your abilities, Aragorn." Aragorn nodded reluctantly.

When they returned to the cabin's main room, all was quiet. Aragorn ducked around the curtain to retrieve the chair he'd left there, and couldn't help smiling at the scene. Frodo had managed to put his empty bowl on the chair, and was now curled on his side, snoring softly, one hand resting lightly on his stomach as if he'd fallen asleep while feeling his child move. Aragorn quietly removed the chair and bowl and left the hobbit to his rest.


	5. Chapter 5

The next two weeks were the most frustrating of Frodo's life. For starters, that Man insisted he remain in bed at all times, except for using the chamber pot, to "regain his strength". That was fine... for about two days after that truly horrid examination. After that, Frodo found his patience wearing thin, and his boredom growing by the hour. Especially since his only company now was Aragorn -the other three Rangers had left two days ago, sent on varying errands- and he wasn't particularly entertaining. That left the cabin itself, which Frodo hadn't had the opportunity to adequately acquaint himself with, and he resolved to do something about that.

So when Aragorn disappeared for a while on the third morning, Frodo decided to stretch his legs and look around a bit. The hardest part wasn't sliding off the bed and having to stay balanced as he managed to stand; no, he'd done that a number of times when he got down to use the chamber pot. Rather, it was stepping off the small bit of cloth put down to keep his feet from getting cold as he did his business. The floor was so very frigid.

He shivered and took another step toward the end of his bed, one hand always touching the bed -it didn't hurt to be cautious when one hadn't actually walked under his own power for... a week? perhaps more. His memory of the passing time in the forest was very fuzzy. Frodo shook his head in disbelief and slowly continued toward the other side of the cabin.

By the time he reached the end of the bed his feet had become accustomed to the floor's temperature, which was good, as he now faced another challenge: could he stay balanced on his own? He knew he could venture around the end of the bed and use the wall for support, but he wanted to at least try to walk unaided, just to know if he could. Hesitantly, he slid one foot forward, then the other, so he was standing a pace beyond the bed. He wobbled a bit, but so far, so good.

He took another slow, careful step, then another, and in a few moments, was standing in front of the wooden trunk he'd noticed from his bed. It was very worn, many scars and scuffs nearly obliterating the dark green paint. In some spots there were white spots also, as if there had been some sort of accents painted on it, perhaps a stenciled scene or decorative flowers. He touched the rough wood reverently, the lid almost even with his chest, and fumbled for the latch to open it.

The lid was heavier than he expected -either that, or he was weaker than he remembered, which he mused was more likely the case- and he could not reach far enough to lean the lid against the wall, so he held it open and peered inside. There was not much light in that corner of the cabin, but he could see folds of cloth, probably linens as he'd guessed before, and what looked like the edges of some old scrolls tucked along the left side of the trunk. He reached to grab one, but was startled when the door abruptly opened right next to him and the heavy footsteps of Aragorn echoed on the floorboards.

"Frodo?" the Man's voice called in puzzlement as the steps halted and in his mind's eye, Frodo could see Aragorn scratching his head in bewilderment at the hobbit's absence from the bed. He flinched, caught between his curiosity of what the scrolls were and the desire to shut the trunk before he was caught snooping. Unfortunately for him, his muscles were just as conflicted, his left arm snagging a scroll as his right hand let go of the lid, which hit his head with a solid-sounding thunk.

"Frodo?" Aragorn asked again, this time closing the door behind him to reveal the hobbit rubbing his head and looking up guiltily. Frodo had quickly dropped the scroll when his head gave him away, and let the lid fall close the rest of the way, so at least his only apparent infraction would be being out of bed...

"What did you think you were doing?" Aragorn inquired with some frustration evident in his voice. "Why are you out of bed?"

Frodo thought it best to stick with the bare truth. "I was bored," he pouted.

"So you decided to get up against my command, wander around the cabin, and stick your head in old trunks?" Now he sounded exasperated. "What if you had fallen and hurt yourself? No one was here to assist you!"

"That was the point: you weren't here to stop me." Frodo crossed his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes, straightening to his full height despite of the painful spasms that assaulted his back. "There is nothing to do, nothing to see from that bed, and I'm tired of staying there all the time! So I explored a bit while you were gone, that's all. I was fine."

Aragorn knew he shouldn't laugh, but having a diminutive, very pregnant hobbit glaring up at him, his arms crossed in stubborn determination, was nothing if not amusing. Particularly when that hobbit's full height barely reaches his waist and that hobbit is sporting his much too-large shirt... Aragorn had to fight not to smile. Instead, he sighed and asked, "How's your head? That sounded like it hurt."

Frodo nodded ruefully, one hand rubbing at the sore spot. "I'll have a lump for it, most like," he admitted freely, then seemed to grow suspicious. "So you're not going to yell at me for getting up and all?"

"Only if you promise not to do it again." Frodo's frown returned full force before Aragorn finished, "When I'm not here. You may walk around when I am present, but you must promise to sit down or tell me if you feel at all weak or dizzy. Understand?"

Frodo considered him closely for a moment, then nodded, allowing his defensiveness to drain away. Then he blinked, looked at the Man again, and said in wonder, "You bathed!"

Aragorn laughed. "If it took you this long to notice, perhaps I didn't do a very good job. But yes, I did some washing behind the ears and around the neck... I want to be as clean as possible for when your babe is born."

"You think it will be that soon? Soon enough that you are even bathing for it?" Frodo whitened a shade and ducked his head.

"Yes, I think it will be soon. I do not know how soon, Frodo, but I'd like to be prepared." He crouched to come eye-to-eye with Frodo, and said softly, "You know I will do all I can for you when it is time."

Frodo nodded, unconsciously rubbing the small of his back with both hands. "I know. It's just..."

"You're nervous," Aragorn finished for him. "Being nervous, and scared, is completely understandable. But for now... where does your back hurt?"

Frodo looked startled, then realized where his hands were. "The lower part," he admitted. "It ached when I was in bed, but it's worse now that I'm standing."

"The weight of the babe pulls on you differently when you're standing," Aragorn confirmed. "Come, let me take you by the fire and see if I can help alleviate it."

Frodo was secretly glad when he was picked up and carried back to the other side of the cabin; his legs had been growing wobbly and he wasn't sure how much longer he could've stayed on his feet. The warmth of the fire was also welcome -there must have been a draft coming in around the door, as he now realized his entire body was rather chilled.

Once Frodo was seated cross-legged on a folded blanket in front of the fire, Aragorn sat behind him and directed, "Rest your elbows on your knees," then put his hands to Frodo's back, rubbing down either side of his spine. He worked his way down to the lower back and, digging in with his fingers, massaged out some of the larger knots. By the time he was nearly finished, Frodo's head was bobbing and the hobbit was nearly asleep. He smiled at Frodo's ability to sleep nearly anywhere, and let him be while he put together a small meal.

Frodo jerked himself fully awake when the Man spoke next to his ear: "Are you hungry? I've put out some food." Frodo's stomach answered for him, solidly in the affirmative, and Frodo flushed when Aragorn laughed. "Here, let me help you into a chair, since the bed has grown wearisome. Besides, I don't want to have to shake crumbs out of the blankets." He winked and scooped Frodo off the floor, depositing him on the chair closest to the fire.

Frodo eagerly tucked in to the modest fare -some crusty bread, a soup with beef broth and plenty of vegetables, and a bit of aged cheese- and barely even paused to breathe until his stomach was satisfied. He noticed that the Ranger didn't eat much, but if the Man couldn't appreciate a bit of good food, of what concern was that to him? It just left more for him, after all. He also noticed that Aragorn was watching him expectantly, seemingly waiting for him to be finished before saying something. Frodo fervently hoped he wasn't about to suggest another examination.

And indeed, as Frodo finished mopping up the broth with his last bit of bread, Aragorn leaned forward, his hands folded and on the table, and spoke. "Frodo, I know your situation must be overwhelming to you, and I realize it probably seems I'm pushing you too much when discussing the babe and the birth. I want you to know I would not emphasize it if I did not think it important." He stopped, seeming to wait for some sign from him.

Frodo considered the Man with puzzlement. This was the other thing that was really starting to wear on him -Aragorn's constant insistence that he be doing this or cooperating about that for 'the good of the babe'. He'd barely wrapped his mind around the mere fact of the babe's existence, much less decided whether or not he actually wanted to do good by it! The Man's unquestioning assumption that he would want to cooperate grated on his nerves and made him even more inclined to not cooperate.

Aragorn still hadn't resumed, so Frodo made an impatient gesture to continue, and that seemed sufficient. "I'm not sure if I've made this perfectly clear, but... the birth will happen soon. Exactly when, I do not know, but I would judge within the next few weeks." He paused again.

Yes, Frodo had gathered by the Man's pigheadedness -well, single-mindedness, to put it kindly- about the issue that it would happen soon, though he still did not completely fathom what it would entail. And he wasn't sure he wanted to. He nodded to prompt Aragorn to get to the point already.

"You need to consider what will become of the babe after the birth," Aragorn said without further ado. "Will you try to raise it on your own? Would you like to take it back to your family in the Shire, and have them help you raise it? Would you want it to be given to a family who would raise it as their own?" He paused for Frodo to absorb the question, and finished, "You will need to decide your wishes, and it would be best if you did so before the babe is born."

Frodo could fill in the rest of that statement: '...in case you don't survive long enough to say one way or the other.' It was a chilling thought, but it was one he'd already been aware of: Men obviously underestimated hobbit hearing, especially the hearing of a wary hobbit who had nothing better to do. Aragorn and that Halbarad had discussed it when they thought him asleep, but he heard enough to catch the general idea.

But this, now... what was he to do with a babe? He could not hope to raise it, when he did not even know where he would end up once the Rangers turned him out. He did not trust his family to accept his babe any more than they'd accepted him when his parents died, especially considering the circumstances... And who would want a babe such as this? Surely no one who could be trusted to raise a child properly. So where did that leave him? Stuck with a babe he knew he could not care for, since no one else would want it? Unless the babe died, which was also part of the Rangers' discussion he'd overheard... that would be so much simpler.

And yet... the thought of wishing death on a smaller being, who did not ask to be in this situation any more than he did, made him feel ill. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat and said meekly, "I think I need to lie down."

Aragorn silently helped him down from the chair, and he retreated to that hated bed, crawling in and lying with his face toward the wall. He had some serious thinking to do.

After a time, his thinking was disturbed by a growing cramp in his belly. He shifted uneasily, glad for the distraction from thoughts that had descended into an endless circle of doubts and despair. Eventually the cramp eased, and his mind drifted... until there was another cramp. It wasn't quite painful, just uncomfortable. His mind, still absorbed in thoughts of the birth, immediately jumped to that possibility, and he had to admit he didn't know if this was what it would feel like or not. He seemed to remember his aunts implying birth was an extremely painful process, but perhaps it was something that started gradually and got worse? Aragorn would know -at least he could be useful for that!

Frodo turned himself over to face the room once more to find that Aragorn was nowhere in sight. But he didn't remember hearing him leave. . . had he fallen asleep? He shrugged, as it was entirely possible he'd taken an impromptu nap, and hoped for once that the Man would reappear quickly. The anxiety of not knowing what was happening was making his breath catch in his throat and his stomach churn. Then, another cramp, and still no sign of Aragorn.

When the door finally opened, Frodo was startled out of a doze. Aragorn entered, carrying two water buckets, and went to the other side of the fireplace and poured the water into something Frodo could not quite see. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

Aragorn looked up, then motioned. "I found a barrel in the attic, and thought it would be prudent to have a good supply of water inside for use. Did you have a good nap?"

Frodo shrugged. "I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep. Then I had some stomach cramps, but..." he frowned, mentally checking how he felt. "But they seem to have stopped."

Aragorn immediately appeared thoughtful. "How did they feel, and where did you feel them?" he asked.

"They were all over, you know," Frodo said vaguely. "And they didn't hurt too much, it just kinda pinched a bit."

Aragorn nodded, having already pulled up a chair beside the bed, and pushed up his sleeves. "I would like to feel around, just to be sure," he said before actually touching Frodo. His hands were cold, but gentle, as he prodded and pushed like he did during the examination.

The babe kicked out in response to the pressure, and Aragorn laughed. "I've woken him, it seems," he said as he sat back in the chair. "The babe is not in the typical position for birth, so I would expect you were having some of the early pains. They are relatively common and harmless, so do not let it concern you greatly."

Frodo nodded; his throat was still tight with anxiety and would not yet let him speak. At length, he asked, "How will I know when the real birth pains start?"

"You may not," Aragorn replied frankly. "The early pains and the real pains can closely resemble each other, at least at first, but there are certain differences that I can discern. For that reason, you need to tell me whenever you have such pains so we can be adequately prepared when your time comes."

Frodo nodded meekly.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next days, Frodo would pace the cabin as often as he was allowed, with Aragorn watching him closely. Some days he would walk until his back threatened mutiny and his feet and ankles swelled, which would always lead to a scolding from Aragorn that he needed to be more careful. But then the Man would have him lay flat on his back on the rug before the fire and rubbed his feet and ankles until the aching subsided and the swelling began to go down. So Frodo didn't really mind the scoldings, since the foot rubs felt so heavenly. In fact, he may even admit to doing it on purpose, just to have that small pleasure, and if Aragorn caught on he never mentioned it.

Thus, late one afternoon, Frodo was lying before the fire, drowsing as his feet were expertly massaged, when he heard hoofbeats approaching. He levered himself up on his elbows and said, "Someone's coming."

Aragorn looked at him oddly, then must have heard it as well, for he was standing in an instant, saying, "Sit on the bed and pull the curtain. Stay quiet until I tell you it is safe." He rapidly donned his swordbelt and grabbed his bow and quiver from some cranny near his bedroll, and was out the door before Frodo had even managed to get to his feet.

Frodo huddled on the bed, listening as the hoofbeats came ever closer, then stopped not far from the cabin. He heard Aragorn call out a challenge, but could not quite hear the response. Then all was silent and Frodo feared the worst . . . until the door burst open and Aragorn called, "Halbarad has returned; it is safe." The door closed again and Frodo heard the men's voices from along the side of the cabin, probably freeing the horse from whatever burdens it carried.

Frodo ventured out from behind the curtain and laid back down upon the rug by the fire -sometimes his back preferred lying on the floor rather than the bed, and this was one of those times- and had fallen asleep by the time the men entered, laden with packages and parcels of assorted shapes and sizes.

Aragorn and Halbarad were quiet as they sorted through the supplies Halbarad had brought, putting foodstuffs in one place, blankets and towels in another, and various baby items into the trunk beside the door. While they put the things away, Halbarad spoke. "Peony and Mahlon expressed interest in the babe." At Aragorn's questioning look, he added, "I did not tell them all of the particulars of Frodo's situation, but asking after baby clothing immediately sparked Peony's interest. They would take the babe in if Frodo were willing."

Aragorn nodded -he knew well the nature of the hobbit lady, who loved to discuss anything relating to babes and bairns, and would instantly latch on to any hint of children in the conversation. That her only child thus far had died during birth did not seem to diminish her interest in the slightest. "They are aware of the child's origins?"

"I told them enough, I deem, and in any case Peony insists it would not make a difference. Indeed, I believe the child would be well-loved no matter what circumstances brought it into being."

"Agreed." Aragorn was absorbed in thought for several moments. "I will inform him of this new possibility; I believe it will be well-received, but I am not certain of his current thoughts on the matter." He glanced down at Frodo, napping peacefully in front of the fire, and laid one of the newly-borrowed blankets over his form. "It will require delicate handling, but it will be for the best."

* * *

Frodo should have known something was coming when he got to have fresh bread and milk with the stew for supper. At the time, his joy at having something to eat that hadn't spent who knows how long in someone's pack or wasn't pickled to death completely overrode his suspicions about what might be expected of him in return. At least Aragorn had the courtesy to wait until bedtime to spring it on him . . .

Frodo was settling into bed for the night when Aragorn came over with some more blankets, saying that Halbarad had borrowed them from someone, and it might be more comfortable to have them tucked in various places. Well, Frodo was game to try anything, as "getting comfortable" seemed an impossibly tall order at this point, so he let the Man fold and place blankets until he had to admit that it was fairly comfortable, with a blanket between his knees and one wedged beneath his stomach to take some of the strain off his back.

Then Aragorn perched on the edge of the bed and said, "I'm sure you remember me asking you about what you want for the babe once it is born." He waited until Frodo ventured a hesitant nod (hesitant because he wasn't sure a response was necessary, as that question had been consuming nearly all of his thought), and continued, "I have one more alternative for you to consider, if you are willing. Have you yet come to a decision on what will become of the babe?"

Frodo sighed and shook his head. "No . . . how can I decide what will become of it when I don't know what will become of me?"

"Would it help if I told you that there is a family who would love to care for the babe as their own?"

Frodo blinked, then gaped at the Man. "That . . . could help, but . . . how? Why?"

"We borrowed some items for the child from a lady, and she asked about the babe. She and her husband offered to provide a home for the child."

Frodo looked thoughtful, then suspicious. "How much do they know?"

"Only that a young hobbit will soon have an unanticipated child."

Now Frodo looked skeptical. "So they don't know how this . . . happened."

"No, they don't, and it won't change their minds."

"Not even that it is a half-breed?" Frodo asked bitterly.

Aragorn couldn't help but smile a bit. "I suppose I haven't mentioned that the lady is a hobbit and her husband is a man?"

Frodo blinked stupidly for a moment, stunned.

Aragorn rose and patted his blanket-covered shoulder. "Think about it, Frodo. But for now you should get some sleep. Good night." He disappeared around the curtain and left Frodo alone with his befuddled mind. 'Think about it'? He'd not be able to think of anything else!

Many questions and worries circled endlessly in his mind, and it was a long time before he managed to fall asleep.

The question of what was to become of the babe proved a difficult one, even when he slept on it a good half dozen times (if you counted naps). So he resorted to pacing, the circles traced by his feet reflecting the circles repeating in his mind.

* * *

His thought had divided into two distinct choices: that he raise the child, and that he let that couple have it. There were definite problems with both, and it was weighing these problems that had him flummoxed. How could he hope to support himself and the babe? Where could they live? Yet on the other hand, how could he know that couple would care properly for the child? What if they decided they didn't want it, after all?

At times, a smaller third voice piped up. It would be much easier if the babe simply doesn't survive . . . Frodo quashed this thought ruthlessly as soon as he was aware of it -he had no control over the outcome of the birth, and the babe's life or death would not affect the fact that he himself needed somewhere to go. Later, the third voice suggested that he go lose himself in the forest again, and all would be taken care of . . . Frodo dismissed this, also, as distasteful and impossible.

Aragorn watched Frodo silently, not intending to step in unless his absent-minded dithering lead him to unnecessarily strain himself. So he let the endless pacing continue for the better part of a day (with breaks for meals) until Frodo was visibly fatigued, yet apparently unaware of anything other than his internal debate. Then he put himself in the pacing hobbit's route and stopped Frodo with a hand on his shoulder when he would have gone around him. "Frodo," he said gently, "you need to rest. Come, lie down before the fire."

Frodo stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and allowed himself to be led to the fireside.

As Aragorn helped Frodo settle onto the rug, he observed, "You are troubled. Is there naught I can do to help?"

Frodo shrugged noncommittally. "I'm just . . . confused," he admitted after a moment's silence.

"Would it be of value for me to tell you more about Peony and Mahlon?" Aragorn asked as he settled at Frodo's feet and began rubbing them.

Frodo's brow creased. "Who?"

"Those who would raise your baby. Their names are Peony and Mahlon."

"Oh." He signed as deeply as he could with the weight of the babe pressing down on his lungs. "Yes, please."

So Aragorn launched into the story of the unusual pair who live on a farm in an oversized hobbit hole outside of Archet. Frodo listened attentively, though he found he didn't always catch everything because he was realizing he really needed a nap. His interest was renewed, however, when Aragorn began to speak of a year earlier, when Peony and Mahlon were expecting their first child.

Aragorn's part of that story began when an urgent message that his assistance was needed reached him while on patrol. He arrived at their home to find she had started birthing early and, in the town healer's words, 'everything seemed all wrong.' Peony was exhausted from an overly long labor and the child, who was coming out feet-first, was stuck with her head still inside. At this point Aragorn interrupted his narrative to as Frodo if he was all right, as his eyes were wide and he'd gone very pale.

Frodo hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he tried to answer, so intent was he on the story. His head swam as he gulped air, but he was soon able to say, "I'm fine. What happened?"

Aragorn obligingly resumed. "With some effort, I was able to finish delivering the child, but it was too late -she had been strangled by the cord that connects mother and babe. Peony nearly perished as well. She has since recovered, but some weakness remains."

Frodo stared at him, still wide-eyed. "Could that happen to me?" he asked in almost a whisper.

"It is possible," Aragorn admitted, "but you are already past the point where she went into labor early, and I believe your child is almost in the normal birthing position already." He leaned forward to touch Frodo's belly briefly, then nodded. "Yes. The likelihood of your babe birthing upside-down is rather small."

Frodo nodded in understanding. "Will they try again to have a child?"

"I do not know. Peony greatly desires children, but Mahlon is reluctant to place her in such a position again, for fear of losing her. If they do try, the situation will need to be closely monitored, but it is impossible to predict the most likely outcome."

Frodo fell silent for several minutes, then asked slowly, "Then having this babe to raise would be a consolation to them?"

"Yes, I believe it would be a great consolation to them."

Frodo absorbed this thoughtfully. "And they would love and accept it no matter what?"

"I believe them capable of nothing less," Aragorn confirmed.

Frodo closed his eyes, seeming to gather his courage, and said, "Then it is settled. The babe will be theirs."

* * *

Having made the decision, Frodo was carried along on a wave of relief for the rest of the day. As is their way, however, that anxiety was replaced by another: what would become of him?

By midday he was pacing once again, bewilderment writ on his features. His preoccupation was so great that he did not notice Aragorn and Halbarad had left before he started his pacing; thus, when they returned, he was startled by Aragorn's reprimand for being out of bed when no one else was there.

Aragorn softened his tone when he discerned Frodo's distress, and helped Frodo into a chair at the table and said, "Tell me what troubles you today."

Frodo fidgeted with the teacup Halbarad had just given him in preparation for teatime, and sighed. "Where am I to go? The babe has a home, but I do not."

"Frodo, we will provide you shelter as long as you have need of it," Aragorn replied, knowing he had said such before and not quite understanding what Frodo was getting at.

"Yes, but . . . I cannot impose on you forever!" he burst out, looking thoroughly miserable. "Even now you can't do what you normally do because of me."

Aragorn began to understand. "It is true that we would not normally reside here for this length of time, but we are glad to be of help to you. We would be remiss if we did not assist you in every way possible."

"But you must go back to . . . doing whatever it is Rangers do," Frodo persisted. "What then? Where will I go?"

"We will find some place for you. Perhaps we should start with your family. Are you so certain they would not accept you back?"

"I am certain," Frodo whispered. "I do not belong among them."

"I do not speak only of those you lived with before," Aragorn said kindly. "What of your other relatives?"

Frodo shook his head. "None wanted me when my parents died; why should they want me now?"

"Why don't you let them determine that? Perhaps things have changed in the years since."

Frodo remained silent, brooding over the Man's insistence on passing him off to one of his relatives. Halbarad quietly poured tea into the cup that was now still in his grasp, and he pulled his hands away from any hint of the Man's touch, returning his hands to the cup only after Halbarad poured tea for himself and Aragorn.

Aragorn spoke again. "I would prefer to see you home safe with some member of your family, and only look outside them if circumstances do prove that you are unwelcome in their midst. But in order to give them their chance, they must know you are still alive and well." He stopped and let Frodo absorb the statement. "Would you be willing to write them a letter to let them know you are alive and seeking to return to the Shire?"

"And if I'm not?"

"Not what? Willing?" Aragorn asked, genuinely confused. Then a thought occurred to him. "If you cannot write, you need not worry-"

Frodo interrupted him. "I can write," he said sullenly. "But if I'm not 'seeking to return'?"

"You do not have to say such if you do not mean it," Aragorn allowed. "But you must notify them that you seek a home somewhere. How to do so is up to you."

"How will you send it?"

"The next time one of us is in Bree we will find a messenger to bear it to the Shire. Is this acceptable?"

Frodo considered for a moment. "When will you next be in Bree?"

"Not until after your babe is delivered, I deem. You will likely accompany us, to better recuperate after the birth."

Frodo eyed him over the rim of his cup as he sipped his tea carefully. "Why not write it then?"

"I wish only to ease your mind now, so worries do not consume you in the meantime." Never mind that he may not be in any condition to write, if things go ill. "If you would like to rewrite the letter at that time, you certainly may."

Frodo suspected what Aragorn was leaving unsaid, and had to grant that the Man could prevaricate quite well. But so could he. "All right, I will write your letter," he said. "And I will do it now, if you please. I'd like to get it over with."

Aragorn wordlessly produced paper, quill, and ink bottle from the trunk by the door, and set the items before him. Frodo found he had to kneel on the chair in order to bring the table to the proper height, but soon had a short letter written to his aunt and uncle. Aragorn tried to look at it curiously from the other side of the table, but Frodo hid the words with his hand, and folded the paper efficiently as soon as he was sure the ink was sufficiently dry. "How am I to seal it?" he asked.

"We will have to seal it when we reach Bree," Aragorn admitted. "We do not normally write letters out here."

Frodo frowned. "Where shall I put it, then?"

Halbarad offered to take it. "We can put it up on the mantelpiece," he said, placing it there and setting a heavy-looking candlestick atop it. "It shan't go anywhere from here."

Frodo nodded in satisfaction. Now he had only to wait and find out what his relatives would say, though he strongly suspected he already knew their answer.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Just so you're forewarned, this chapter begins the labor and delivery process. This chapter doesn't need a warning, but if that concept squicks you, you may want to consider skimming or skipping this and the next couple of chapters.

* * *

When Frodo woke, the fire had died down to glowing embers that threw a reddish light on the still cabin. Outside the window the sky was the deep dark that precedes the first light of dawn. Frodo sighed. Right on schedule. This frequent need to use the chamber pot was growing obnoxious, but at least it was predictable.

He heaved himself off the bed and found the pot almost without having to look. As he knelt beside it (kneeling was the only way to ensure he did not miss in the dark), he felt some liquid trickle down his leg. Frodo groaned inwardly-this was at least the third time he'd "leaked" (as Aragorn called it) and he was greatly embarrassed even though Aragorn assured him it was typical at this stage. He hurriedly did his business, then carefully took off his drawers, dried off his leg with them and put the wad next to the pot. Aragorn would know what needed doing with it -this was becoming almost routine, alas.

Frodo must have stood up too fast, because his back twinged painfully as he tried to climb back into the bed. Frodo stood there a moment, rubbing at his back, and was startled by a low voice from the other side of the fireplace. "Are you all right?"

Frodo turned a bit and said petulantly, "My back doesn't like me."

Aragorn chuckled. "Shall we see if we can change that?" he asked as he appeared from the darkness beyond the embers' glow. He knelt next to Frodo and rubbed his back until the hobbit seemed to relax and he knew the pain must have eased. "Better?"

Frodo nodded and yawned. "Thank you," he said sleepily as he crawled back into bed.

Aragorn helped him rearrange the folded blankets until Frodo was settled comfortably. Aragorn stood and watched him for a moment, feeling there was something slightly different, but not sure what. Then it occurred to him. "You're breathing better," he commented.

Frodo peered at him out of the corner of his eye and shrugged.

"May I check the babe's position?" he asked, already reaching towards Frodo's abdomen.

"No," Frodo protested, batting his hand away. "You'll wake him and I won't get any sleep."

Aragorn chuckled. "Fair enough. I'll check in the morning," he said, brushing some stray curls from Frodo's face. "And perhaps we'll get you a bath in the morning, as well."

"That would be nice," Frodo mumbled, and was soon asleep.

Aragorn patted his shoulder and returned to his bedroll in the corner, to catch some sleep while he could.

When morning came 'round, Frodo found himself restless and moody. He didn't want much breakfast, instead preferring to wander aimlessly around the room. Between elevenses and luncheon, Aragorn managed to corner Frodo and convince him to lie down and let himself be prodded yet again. Frodo fidgeted impatiently as Aragorn poked him, but he stilled when Aragorn spoke. "You are breathing easier because the babe has settled into the birthing position, as I thought. You are likely near your time."

Frodo stared at him with wide eyes. "How near?"

"Impossible to say, but . . . soon would be my guess."

Frodo gulped. "Could I have that bath now?" he asked shakily as he pushed himself up to sitting.

Aragorn chuckled. "Give us some time to heat the water, then you can have your bath."

And indeed, after Frodo forced down some soup (only to make Aragorn happy -he didn't really want it) for luncheon, Aragorn settled a chair, a basin, and a stack of towels by the bed for Frodo's bath. Well, calling it a "bath" is rather generous, being only wet cloths rubbed over skin, but it was better than nothing and Frodo rather hoped it would help him calm down. He felt uneasy today and did not know why. It was agreed the same order as last time would be followed, so Frodo first enjoyed his hair being washed. It had gotten rather unmanageable from a lack of combing, but Aragorn was gentle and worked the snarls out carefully.

While Aragorn was laboring over Frodo's curls, he noticed Frodo's face tighten as if he were in pain. "Is something the matter?" he asked, hoping he had not inadvertently yanked on some hair.

"My back is aching again," Frodo admitted once his expression returned to normal. "But it is better now."

Aragorn made a mental note of this, but did not think on it any further until later, when Frodo's bath was nearly done. He was rearranging the towels so he could wash Frodo's sensitive areas when he noticed a small amount of blood on the towels Frodo had been lying on. "Frodo, how long have you been bleeding?" he asked with some concern.

"Bleeding?" Frodo repeated dumbly, automatically craning his neck to see before remembering he had no hope of seeing down there. "I didn't know I was bleeding."

Aragorn checked the shirt Frodo had been wearing, and found a bit more blood, almost unnoticeable on the red of the shirt. "You are bleeding slightly," Aragorn informed him. "I am sorry, but I will need to take a closer look."

Frodo nodded a bit, his heart pounding.

Aragorn quickly and efficiently cleaned those last areas, then carefully washed his hands before sitting on the edge of the bed near Frodo's hips and reaching between his legs. He eased the fingers of one hand inside and placed the other hand on Frodo's skin above where the fingers were probing. Silently, he probed and palpated for several minutes, then asked, "How often has your back been bothering you?"

Frodo shrugged. "It's been off and on."

"When it happens, where is the pain, exactly?"

"My back?" he ventured, uncertain what else to say.

"Where in your back? Upper, lower, in between?"

"Lower . . ."

"Is there any tightness in front at that time? Say, here?" his outer hand gently touched the lower abdomen.

"Maybe a bit," Frodo said hesitantly.

"Does it always feel the same, or is it changing? Getting stronger, perhaps?"

"Umm . . ." Frodo bit his lip. "I'm not sure. Maybe a bit stronger? Why? What's going on?" He was beginning to be panicked by all the strange questions.

Aragorn withdrew his fingers and washed his hands again before answering. "You have begun the birth process, Frodo. The aches in your back are the first of the birthing pains. We will need to keep track of their strength and frequency to monitor the process. For now, you should get dressed. It will likely be some hours before real progress is made, so be sure to rest as much as you can in the meantime."

Frodo did not resist when Aragorn helped him sit and handed him the shirt. He felt lightheaded and slightly ill. When the next ache came a short time later -and it did indeed wrap around his front as well as his back, he now noticed- he could not handle the knowledge of what that pain represented. . . the roiling in his stomach resolved itself into the emptying of his previous meal into the chamber pot. Aragorn was at his side in an instant, trying to reassure him and offering a cup of water. Frodo only shook his head miserably until the ache eased; then he accepted some of the water and heeded Aragorn's urging to lie down awhile.

He napped fitfully until early evening, exhausted by the many interruptions of his sleep of late. He still didn't feel much like eating, but Aragorn convinced him to take some weak tea and thin porridge. Frodo almost expected it to come up again, but it stayed put, for which he was thankful. Time seemed to drag as he lay in bed, staring into space, unable to sleep yet too tired to do much of anything else. The aches continued to come and go regularly, about twice an hour by Aragorn's count, and were slowly growing stronger for all that the timing hadn't changed all day.

It grew late; Aragorn sent Halbarad off to sleep if he could, as Aragorn judged it would be a while yet before the actual birth. Halbarad consented, on the condition that he would be called for if needed and Aragorn agreed, suggesting Halbarad sleep on his bedroll in the corner if it made him feel more at ease. So Halbarad went to bed and Frodo was left to watch Aragorn, who seemed to be boiling some implements before carefully laying them out on a towel and covering them with another towel. Frodo deliberately chose not to think about what they were or what they were for. Instead, he asked, "How much longer will it be?"

Without looking up, Aragorn said, "You should be sleeping."

"I can't. Every time I get close, they wake me up again."

Aragorn looked over at him, then. "It will take however long it takes," he said at last. "Would some walking help?"

Frodo shrugged noncommittally. "It certainly won't help me sleep, but it would be something to do."

Aragorn chuckled. "Then by all means," he said, gesturing toward the rest of the room.

Frodo slid awkwardly out of bed, stepping gingerly as various parts of his body complained. Stretching his legs occupied him for a bit, but he wearied of it and decided to sit in front of the fire instead. Aragorn had stopped with the implements and was now sorting through little packets of herbs, setting some aside. Frodo decided he didn't really want to know about that, either. So he stared absently at the dancing flames until another ache -no, they now merited the name "cramps"- disturbed his reverie.

He must have gasped at the strength of the cramp, for Aragorn peered at him closely. "It is stronger than before?"

Frodo nodded breathlessly, not trusting his voice.

"Good. It is progressing, then," Aragorn said reassuringly and his hand was suddenly rubbing Frodo's back.

When he was sure the cramp had left, Frodo asked again, "How much longer?" A sigh, then he added in a whisper, "I am tired already."

Aragorn set aside his little packets, and the next thing Frodo knew he was being hefted onto the Man's lap, leaning sideways against Aragorn's chest, his legs dangling over one of Aragorn's thighs. "You see, Frodo," rumbled the voice now above his head, "babes decide when they are ready to come out, and nothing we can do will change that. Your babe seems determined to take his time about it, so we must wait until he's good and ready."

Frodo nodded. "I just wish he'd hurry up about it," he said wistfully.

The chest beneath his ear shook in a chuckle. "You may change your mind once he starts coming out," Aragorn said with amusement.

Frodo shrugged. "We'll see." A pause, then, "Why am I on your lap?"

"If you don't like it, I can put you somewhere else." He almost sounded embarrassed.

"No, you're comfortable enough for the moment. I just didn't think Men did such things."

"Of course we do." Any further explanation was cut off when Frodo tensed. When this cramp passed, Aragorn said, "You really should rest."

Frodo considered for a moment, then responded, "I will try to rest if you will explain what I must face before the babe is finally born."

"You refused before; you wish now to be told?"

Frodo nodded. "Now that it has begun, I want to know what else will come." His voice trembled slightly, and Aragorn understood the request was driven by fear as much as curiosity.

So he launched into a very brief description. "The pains you are experiencing serve to widen the opening of the womb until the babe can easily fit through. They will become more frequent and more painful as the womb opens; then you must push the babe out."

"How do you know when it's open wide enough?" Frodo interrupted.

"Periodic checks are necessary to determine when it has opened fully." Aragorn paused. "I will want to check again after dawn to ensure you have progressed from before."

"So you must . . . feel up there . . . repeatedly," Frodo said unhappily.

"I'm afraid so," Aragorn responded, and finished in his thoughts, 'But that will soon be the least of your worries.'

Aragorn continued his explanation with occasional questions from Frodo until Frodo learned enough to suit him. Then he fell silent and, true to his word, closed his eyes and tried to rest.

Aragorn kept close watch on Frodo's pains, judging from when Frodo tensed and his breath hitched, and discerned a gradual increase in the number over the course of the night, from two to three per hour to four or five. It was at times difficult to tell if the pains were any stronger, but Aragorn surmised by Frodo's increasing acceptance of any comforting touch Aragorn offered that the pain was indeed greater than before. Frodo still had to frequently use the chamber pot, as he had before the pains began, and Aragorn always pressed him with a cup of water or tea after, so he could better face the long hours ahead.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Many, many thanks to those who have reviewed so far, and also to those who have added me as an author and/or this story to their favorites. It's such an ego boost to see that. :) To answer a much-asked question: No, this story is not intended to be Frodo/Aragorn slash. However, if you wish to read it that way, I certainly can't stop you. ;) I didn't write it that way, which is why there are no slash warnings/notes to be found on this story.

Also, this chapter continues Frodo's labor efforts, so again, if that idea is squicky to you, you'll want to pass this chapter by.

* * *

The night wore on and gradually gave way to the thick dark of early morning. Frodo tried to rest, he really did, but it was ever so difficult when claws dug into his back and his insides seemed fit to turn themselves inside out on the spot. As time dragged by, the increasing discomfort made him feel sick to his stomach to the point he felt he would throw up if even one more cramp came his way. But he managed to hold back for one pain, then another . . . the grey of pre-dawn seeped into the cabin before he began to lose ground in trying not to retch. "I must get up," he gasped, struggling against Aragorn's arms and nearly dumping himself on the floor for his trouble.

"Easy, Frodo," Aragorn murmured, easily setting him on his feet just in time for Frodo to dash to the chamber pot as the next cramp began. When he returned to an awareness of what was around him, he was awkwardly propped up against the bed and Aragorn was wiping his face, saying, ". . . for tea to help with the pain."

'It won't matter,' Frodo thought wearily and turned away from the Man's face, only to see Halbarad standing in front of the fire, staring at him with concern. Frodo covered his face with his hands, embarrassed. Aragorn touched his shoulder, but he shook it off and snapped, "Go away. I'm going to lie down."

He did not move his hands until he felt the Man's presence retreat and he heard the curtain being pulled shut. Then he wearily dragged himself onto the bed and lay limply on his side, listening to low voices on the other side of the curtain.

Aragorn eventually ventured back in. "The tea is almost ready, and Halbarad is making some porridge -it might help your stomach. I will need to check your progress soon; would you prefer now or after you've eaten?"

Frodo sighed and tried to decide which of the equally unpleasant options he'd prefer, for either way he would not like it. Another cramp came and went before he made up his mind; to his credit, Aragorn was crouching silently beside the bed with no sign of impatience despite how long Frodo was taking to think.

"I would prefer it before I eat, if you please." He had decided it would be better if he were poked and prodded when there was nothing in his stomach, and he was rather curious what the pains might have wrought inside.

Aragorn only nodded, then vanished momentarily and returned, rubbing his hands with a towel. "On your back please, Frodo," he directed, and again sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

Frodo complied and bent his knees up and apart as well -no use dragging it out unnecessarily.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows but wisely remained silent. Gently he worked his hand inside and carefully felt the internal structures, for he must not miss the slightest detail or all could go ill.

Frodo waited anxiously for him to be finished, to withdraw, especially as he felt another cramp building, but the hand remained firmly entrenched. Thus, he was granted the privilege of finding out what it felt like to have something prodding while everything was tensing. It was extremely uncomfortable.

In some measure of consolation, Aragorn pulled out shortly thereafter, looking pleased. "All is well so far," he said, wiping his hand on the towel. "The womb's opening is about twice as wide as before, and I could feel the babe's head at the entrance. You are doing well, Frodo."

For a moment, all he felt was elation that it was proceeding well, but then more questions crowded upon his mind. "But . . . how much farther does it need to go? Will it be over soon?"

"It is only halfway to where it can fit the babe's head," Aragorn admitted.

"Only halfway?" Frodo repeated, dismayed.

"The first half takes the longest," Aragorn rushed to assure him. "The rest of the opening should occur much faster." Never mind that the last part of the opening was also the most painful; no need to add more worries to Frodo's mind.

Halbarad spoke from behind the curtain. "The porridge is nearly ready, Aragorn."

"I will be right there," Aragorn replied briskly and stood, then addressed Frodo. "Once you eat your breakfast, it would be wise to rest a while more. You can do little to hasten the process at this point, so conserving your strength is best."

Frodo nodded reluctantly. The very last thing he wanted was to spend more time in bed, but even he could see the logic in Aragorn's suggestion.

The Man pushed the curtain aside and left it open while he crouched beside Halbarad at the hearth. Frodo watched with disinterest as they discussed the contents of the pot Halbarad was stirring until both nodded. Halbarad ladled some of the glop into a bowl and Aragorn moved aside to where a teapot was steeping, wrapped in a towel to keep it warmer. He poured the dark tea into a chipped mug, then dug around in the supplies heap next to the fireplace until he located a small jar of honey, which he used in the tea. Both Men approached his bed simultaneously, like some bizarre dance.

Aragorn held the tea for him while he ate the porridge handed to him, since he didn't have a safe place to set it on the bed and he couldn't just hold it, as feeding himself required both hands. Eating took a while, with being interrupted periodically by the cramps, and by the time he switched bowl for mug, he just wanted to lie back down. He was grateful when some of his pain seeped away as he drank and by the bottom of the cup he was more than ready for a nap, continuing cramps notwithstanding. He barely made it back to horizontal before his eyes closed of their own accord.

He awoke groggy and restless and, most of all, in pain, such pain that everything before paled in comparison. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could crawl out of his own skin. When most of the pain finally receded, he opened his eyes again, only now seeing he was alone with Halbarad, who was on the other side of the room, wiping his sword. "What is the time?" Frodo asked, his voice more gravelly than he'd expected.

Halbarad quickly put his tools away and replied, "Just after noon. You slept for some hours."

He poured some water in a cup and offered it to Frodo, who took it and drained it with a few gulps. "Thank you," he panted. "Aragorn?"

"Outside, surveying the weather and taking in some air."

"Sounds like a good idea," Frodo commented, and before Halbarad could react, he was out of bed and halfway to the door.

"Frodo, that would not be prudent," Halbarad objected, catching up to the halfling and grasping his shoulder to halt him.

Frodo wrenched his shoulder from the Man's hand, glared at him, and resumed his resolute march for the door.

"Frodo-" he began again, but the halfling was at the door and pulling it open. "Aragorn will have my head for this," Halbarad muttered as he made one last attempt to hold Frodo back, but he wasn't quick enough. Who knew a pregnant hobbit could move so fast?

Both hobbit and man stopped in their tracks when they realized Aragorn was just outside the door, watching with amusement. "Captain, I-" Halbarad began, but was cut off by Frodo saying to both, or no one in particular, "I just want to be outside for a few minutes! Is that really too much to ask? I have not gotten a single breath of fresh air in weeks, and that is most-"

Aragorn cut him off. "It would be better to simply ask, you know."

Frodo only narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms defiantly.

"After all, I might say yes. Halbarad, would you get him a blanket? He doesn't seem to remember that it's winter."

Frodo tried not to smirk as Halbarad disappeared from behind him.

"You will only be out for a few minutes," Aragorn cautioned Frodo as Halbarad draped the blanket around him. "We don't need you chilled on top of everything else."

When at last he stepped outside, Frodo was somewhat disappointed that it was such a dreary day. Brooding clouds hung low in the sky, promising rain before the day was out, and a stiff wind sent dead leaves skittering across dried grass. But the cold air felt good on his face, and he was grateful to be allowed out at all. Not that he would say such aloud.

He tried to enjoy his few minutes, but before much time had passed the pain began to grow again. His hands scrabbled for a grip in the rough wooden wall behind him, but then the blanket began to slip off and he shivered in the wind. So he clung to the blanket, holding it closely around him, and hoped it would be over soon.

The pain gripped him tightly, growing and spreading until he had to sink to his knees on the warped wood of the cabin's meagre porch. Aragorn didn't seem aware anything was going on until that moment, and apparently tried to compensate with more attentiveness now. He knelt next to Frodo, gently wrested the edges of the blanket from Frodo's desperate grip, and wrapped it -and his arms- around the shuddering hobbit. "Breathe, Frodo," he encouraged as he rubbed Frodo's back soothingly.

From that position, Aragorn could quickly recognize it was another pain, much stronger than earlier, which seemed to please him greatly. He waited until it passed to carry Frodo back inside, and decreed another exam was in order.

"Must you do it now?" Frodo asked miserably. "Don't you need to see how far apart they are or something first?"

"I could," Aragorn answered slowly, almost reluctantly. "Would that be preferable?"

Frodo nodded with as much energy as he could muster.

And thus it was that Frodo found himself subject to said exam when the pains were more frequent, more lengthy, and -if it could be said- more painful than previously. He took the opportunity to muse that he would've thought this much pain completely unendurable prior to this experience. If asked, he would've pegged the pain several hours before as the most he could bear without going mad. And yet . . . here he was, still awake and sane.

Well, mostly sane. He rather doubted the Rangers thought him entirely in his right mind, the way he kept snapping at them. But really, asking him if he wanted something to eat while he was in the middle of trying not to throw up wasn't exactly the best move. At least in the future he'd know that all other pains he could possibly suffer would be completely inconsequential compared to this.

When Frodo reached this point in his train of thought he realized Aragorn was still poking around and seemed nearly able to reach Frodo's vocal cords the hard way. He sighed heavily and lifted his head to peer toward the Man. "Are you quite finished?" he asked with a fair amount of irritation in his voice.

After a moment, Aragorn deigned to pay attention to his question and responded, "I am now."

Before Frodo could interrogate him on what he found (for surely he found much, being in there so long!), the pain came by to say hullo. By the time it said farewell, Frodo almost couldn't remember there had been any sort of examination at all. Fortunately, Aragorn wasn't so forgetful.

"You are doing very well," he said as soon as Frodo could pay attention. "The womb opening has continued to widen as it should. Your pains are quite regular now, which will help the opening widen more quickly."

"How much longer?" was Frodo's only weary question.

"I can't tell; I'm sorry. But we'll try to make you as comfortable as possible. Is there anything you can think of that would help?"

Frodo considered this as he rolled back onto his side and curled up a bit, but had to shake his head no.

"We'll try a few things, then, to see what feels best to you."

True to his word, every single spasm that followed was accompanied by some change of position (with varying degrees of success). They started with him flat on his back on his bed, then bent his knees, then rolled him onto his side, then sat him up in bed, then sat him on the edge of the bed, then moved him to the floor and there tried numerous variations of sitting, standing, squatting, and kneeling until Frodo's head was spinning and at least an hour and a half had passed and it was drawing near to suppertime (not that Frodo was hungry -as a matter of fact, the very thought of food turned his stomach).

Aragorn had even tried massaging his back (which wasn't so bad, but that wasn't where most of the pain was) and his stomach (which Frodo did not like -it was too strange in so many ways) during the pains. It had begun raining somewhere along the way, and the wind drove it against the cabin, providing a convenient distraction for Frodo as his stomach wrenched itself into knots.

He ended up back on the bed, curled up -the mattress, while less than ideal, was still more comfortable than the floor, and lying curled up meant he didn't have to worry about keeping his balance during the pains that were now mere minutes apart. Aragorn and Halbarad took turns sitting with him so the other could grab a bite to eat, fetch anything required, like water or more firewood, and finish the preparations for when the babe finally made its appearance.

Around this time Aragorn did another check on Frodo's internal progress. It was much briefer than some, and at the end Aragorn announced, "You're getting quite close, Frodo. The opening is very nearly large enough for the babe's head. You may feel an urge to push it out, but don't do so yet -you could injure yourself."

Frodo nodded, exhausted but pleased at the prospect of getting it over with at last. He almost didn't feel the next cramping until he realized it wasn't really stopping. It lasted long enough to determine that it wasn't just one pain, but several piling atop one another in waves which receded at last and left him gasping for breath. He may need to rethink his strategy of holding his breath through the pain if this continued.

Aragorn was beside him when he opened his eyes (when had he closed them?). "You'll be through this part soon," he assured him, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his heated face and neck.

Frodo sighed -it seemed there was always something more, some little thing he didn't know to expect that made him that much more miserable.

Several more of the compound, nearly endless pains came and went before Aragorn decided to check on him once more. Naturally, it was Frodo's luck that another series of cramps began as soon as Aragorn started whatever it was that he did down there. On the other hand, perhaps it was a mercy to be spared feeling the endless probing for what seemed the umpteenth time. Either way, he was becoming extremely tired from all this and yearned for it to be truly over.

As if reading his mind, Aragorn spoke. "Good news, Frodo: it's time to push. But before you do, there are a few things you should know." He proceeded with a handful of suggestions and bits of advice, all the while helping Frodo allow a number of towels to be slid under him to 'protect' the bedding.

A pain came while Aragorn was in the midst of his explanations, but Aragorn gave Frodo the choice of whether to try pushing or not. Though he felt a strong physical urge to do so, Frodo found himself hesitating, almost unwilling to begin this last part of the process. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, preparing to tell Aragorn he didn't want to do this, but the cramp ceased. He sighed and Aragorn patted his shoulder. "Don't worry; we'll be ready for the next one."

"We?" Frodo asked weakly.

"Of course. I will be right here for as long as it takes. Now, for what I haven't told you . . ."

Frodo tried to listen, honest, but his mind wandered as he tried to prepare himself for the next pain and what would come after. All too soon he felt the cramping build and he tensed, hoping Aragorn wouldn't notice.

But he did, and immediately went into action, making sure Frodo's knees were bent and spread apart as he'd instructed, then took up his position holding Frodo's feet in place. "Now take a deep breath and push, just like I told you," he encouraged.

'How can I take a deep breath with the babe atop my lungs?' Frodo thought sourly, but did as instructed. When he could hold it no longer, he stopped, gasping, his heart pounding.

"Again," Aragorn urged.

Frodo obeyed, dubious that it would help any. When the pain receded and Aragorn allowed him to stop trying to push, Frodo could only lie there and pant, spots dancing before his eyes. Aragorn helped him up enough to sip some water, then it started again.

Frodo wasn't sure how many times over they did this -a good handful of times, at least- before he asked grumpily, "Is anything even happening? It doesn't feel any different."

Aragorn nodded. "Let's take a look, shall we?" He washed his hands in a nearby basin that Halbarad was keeping fresh for that purpose, and gently slid his hand into the canal to investigate. "The babe has begun emerging from out of the womb, but hasn't progressed very far." He felt from within the start of the next crampings, so he said, "Go ahead and push, Frodo. Halbarad, would you come and hold his other foot down?"

Frodo spared a moment's thought to consider that both Men were down there and his borrowed shirt was up around his hips . . . then he turned his attention back to getting the dratted babe out, already. He pushed with all his might, but it seemed Aragorn's hand negated all his effort.

"Your positioning could be improved," Aragorn announced when that attempt was over. "Your passage is very tight around the babe's head, so it takes more effort to make any progress. But I think I know how to help. Lift up your leg and bring your knee toward your chest." Aragorn helped guide the leg into place, and had Frodo hold on to his leg just behind the knee.

Then Aragorn made him put the other leg up the same way, until Frodo began to wonder if this repositioning was really about revealing as much of his bottom as possible. And Aragorn's hand was still inside -how infuriating! "This feels better already, Frodo," Aragorn tried to reassure him. "Halbarad and I will each support one of your feet so if your hand slips, you won't have to worry about kicking me in the head."

"What if I want to kick you in the head?" Frodo grumbled, but Aragorn pretended not to hear. Pain soon came calling and Frodo went along with it for as long as he could, hearing Aragorn telling him he was doing well but not really believing it. At least the Man finally withdrew the intruding hand, and he was allowed to put his legs down until the next pain -that was something, anyway.

It was quite another thing to get his legs back in position when the pain started again, especially as the sweat started to gather in the creases of his knees and his fingers began to slip because of it. He had a hard time concentrating on the pushing part, being too focused on the staying in the right position part. Aragorn had to remind him, "Frodo, I am holding on to your feet. Stop worrying about keeping your legs up and just push." Still, it took Frodo a couple rounds of pushing before he could devote his energy to it without worrying about kicking someone or being too self-conscious over just how much of his rear was exposed for all to see.

Even with the change in position, Frodo could not tell that he'd made one bit of difference with all that pushing. Again he let a number of cramps come and go before he voiced his concern. Well, whined his concern -he was tired and frustrated, after all. "Why isn't anything happening?" he asked petulantly, glaring at Aragorn while Halbarad tried not to laugh.

"It can take some time," Aragorn reminded him. "But I'll check on it if that will put you at ease."

As much as he hated to admit it . . . "It would," he said evenly and Aragorn conceded.

It did not take much prodding before Aragorn frowned. "You are correct; there has not been much additional progress. We will need to try more position changes to find what's most effective for you."

Frodo sighed heavily. "Hasn't this been going on long enough? Isn't there anything else you can do?" he asked beseechingly. He knew the Man had discussed with Halbarad the possibility of needing to make an incision in Frodo's stomach to deliver the babe, and the accompanying risk of bleeding to death, but Frodo wasn't afraid of bleeding to death. In fact, the sooner over the better, no matter what became of him.

"No, Frodo," Aragorn answered sharply, knowing what the hobbit was asking. "I will not consider that until all alternatives are exhausted. You do not know what you ask."

"I do know what I'm asking," Frodo insisted. "And I would prefer that to lying here for more endless hours, accomplishing nothing no matter how hard I try." He could see his arguments weren't getting far, so he changed tactics slightly. "I am very tired already, Aragorn. I just want this to be done."

Aragorn eyed him searchingly, then nodded reluctantly. "If matters do not improve soon, we will discuss other measures. Will you agree to one more hour of trying before we discuss anything?"

Frodo considered this carefully. "One hour," he agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: To celebrate the fact that I've finished writing this story (and that my beta enjoyed it waves to LilyBaggins), this next installment is coming a little earlier than the usual week-ish span between updates. :)

In this chapter, the babe is delivered. Strong warnings for those who are squicked by blood, childbirth, and that sort of thing.

* * *

The hour had barely begun when Aragorn decided a drastic change was in order: Frodo ought to be more upright. Perhaps then the force that kept one's feet on the ground would help draw the babe from its hiding place. It was worth a try.

So Frodo sat upright in bed for the next pain, but that would not avail much, since the babe would be unable to emerge with Frodo sitting flat on his bottom. Aragorn had Frodo stand next to the bed while he thought about it further. It would have been so much easier if he only had access to a birthing chair, but, like any other of the traditional birthing tools, he was without it and would have to figure something else out.

Frodo was grateful to stretch his legs, but found they were somewhat wobbly and he had to tightly grip the bedding to remain standing. When the pain began, he wasn't sure what to do -he only knew he could not stay standing. He cautiously lowered himself so he was squatting and let himself push half-heartedly; while Aragorn's eyes were on him, the man's gaze was elsewhere, and Frodo did not wish hurt anything by doing something he shouldn't while Aragorn wasn't watching. But something was happening whether he wished it or no -he gasped in surprise and dropped to his knees.

Aragorn came alive then. "What is it?" he asked urgently.

"Something . . . shifted. It moved," Frodo said in a whisper, barely able to believe it.

"Go back how you were and let me feel." Frodo awkwardly resumed the crouch, and let Aragorn do what he would. It wasn't long before Aragorn grinned and withdrew his hand. "Much better," he proclaimed. "This stance opens everything up just enough that the babe can slip out more easily. If you remain like this, the babe should soon make an appearance."

"I can't hold it that long," Frodo objected, wobbling and falling to his knees again. "It hurts my feet and I am not properly balanced."

Aragorn frowned and considered a moment. Then his expression lightened and he rose to bring all his supplies closer to where Frodo knelt. Halbarad helped, but looked as confused as Frodo felt.

"Go back to squatting for a moment, Frodo," Aragorn instructed. "Halbarad, kneel close behind him and sit back on your heels. Good. Put this towel over your lap, and now Frodo, let your bottom rest on his thighs."

Frodo cautiously lowered his rear, looking behind him anxiously as if afraid Halbarad would let him fall in a heap on the floor. Then his skin met the towel, and his legs tensed, not seeing how this could possibly work.

"All right, Frodo, lean back against him, and Halbarad, wrap an arm around his chest so he doesn't slide off."

Halbarad obeyed a little too well, putting his arm under the hobbit's armpits and placing his tight grip right over Frodo's sore nipples. Frodo yelped and began pulling at the offending arm, but Halbarad didn't understand and just held on more tightly. Aragorn did understand, and quickly directed, "A little lower, Halbarad. He's sensitive there."

"My apologies," Halbarad said earnestly.

Frodo just glared at Aragorn. "Now what?" he asked crossly. "I am completely draped across his lap, and I don't see how this will do any good."

"I'm not done yet," Aragorn said mildly, kneeling in front of Frodo and laying a towel across each of his legs. Then he patted Frodo's knees and said, "Feet on my knees, please." Frodo did so reluctantly. "Now tell me when it feels as it did when you were squatting." He slid slightly forward until Frodo said to stop, then parted his knees to bring Frodo's feet apart until Frodo halted him. It took a bit of maneuvering until Frodo was satisfied, but Aragorn was hopeful that it would work. He had enough time to put a towel over the bit of exposed floor between his knees and Halbarad's, then Frodo started pushing again.

Frodo had to admit this way was much more productive; he could feel what he could only assume was the baby's head slowly moving downward. It was a very unique feeling, and he was pleased by it because he knew it meant this would all be over sooner rather than later. After the second such push, Frodo had to gasp out, "Aragorn . . . the pot . . . I need-" Before he could make himself coherent, he felt a recognizable warm feeling at his rear and his face, already red from exertion, turned positively scarlet.

While Aragorn understood Frodo's request, he could not do anything -the chamber pot was out of reach, and he was too late anyway. He calmly pulled out a towel and began to wipe Frodo's bottom. "Do not fret, Frodo. This does happen, and it's not your fault. In fact, it is a very good thing, as it means the baby is progressing smoothly down the passage, putting pressure on that area."

Frodo would have replied, but did not have the time before he needed to push more. Thankfully, there were no more accidents, and it seemed mere moments before Aragorn called out, "Stop pushing, Frodo! The head must go gently through the skin's opening."

Frodo could indeed feel the pressure on the opening, burning and stinging and he wanted it to stop right now. He whimpered as the feeling continued, getting stronger during another entire series of cramps, but never receding. And as that painful pressure built, so did the physical demand that he absolutely must push. He could feel the need incessantly pulling at his muscles, urging him to go ahead, get it over with. He wasn't sure which was worse, the burning and stinging or the command to not push. "I need . . . to push," he panted, straining against the compulsion to do just that.

"Don't push!" Aragorn said shortly. "Whatever you do, don't push."

Frodo groaned and clenched his hands into fists as he fought the urge and tried not to acknowledge the utter pain radiating from that one spot on his anatomy. "Make it stop," he begged as another cramp began.

"I'm going to touch you," was Aragorn's only reply, then Frodo could feel the man's finger skating around the edges of his opening, tugging in places. Then the finger withdrew. "Frodo, the head is slightly too large to fit. I will need to help by cutting the skin slightly so it can open wide enough. The babe should emerge soon after."

Frodo only nodded, more than ready to finally end it.

"This will hurt," Aragorn warned as he picked up one of the tools that Frodo hadn't wanted to know their purpose.

Frodo chuckled humorlessly to himself. What hadn't hurt?! Then Aragorn made a quick motion and oh, yes, that did indeed hurt. Goodness did it hurt! But it made the other feeling stop, so perhaps that was good.

Well, the other feeling stopped for a moment anyway. Then it was back, and worse than before as Frodo felt the skin -including the cut Aragorn had made- stretching, stretching, endlessly stretching as the babe's head strained against the opening. Another pain came, pressing the head harder against his skin, and the agony multiplied tenfold. Frodo screwed his eyes shut and wondered if he was going mad from the pain, for he heard a long, low moaning that prickled the skin and sent shivers down the spine . . . the sort of sound that makes you hope whatever is making it will soon be out of its misery . . .

It stopped when he gasped for air, and he realized the moaning was his. Funny, it sounded so far away . . . 'So this is what it feels like to be out of one's head,' he thought wildly before the pain brought him crashing back to the reality in which he could sense the babe's head slowly -always so slowly!- creeping its way out, finally out of him.

"Just a little longer and we'll have the head, Frodo," Aragorn comforted.

Frodo heard his words but did not attend to them; it was quite enough to simply remember to breathe through the agony. Then, almost miraculously, pressure abated and he could feel the head leaving him.

"I've got the head, Frodo! You're nearly there. Now, push!" Aragorn sounded more pleased at this than he had at any other point in the short time Frodo had known him.

So Frodo tried to indulge him, but every bit of pushing seemed ten times harder than before, and drained him ten times faster. He grunted and whimpered with effort, but he was certain that if Aragorn wasn't gently coaxing the babe out as well, he'd be making no progress at all. When that cramp stopped, Frodo sagged against Halbarad, feeling utterly spent and limp.

"You're doing well, Frodo. Another good push and the shoulders will be out, as well," Aragorn reported.

Another push? And a good one, at that? Did the Man realize what he was asking? Frodo wearily took a deep breath and bore down yet again when the pain resumed, almost certain it wouldn't qualify as a good push, but it was all he could manage. He was trembling from exhaustion and utter misery, his only conscious thought clinging to the knowledge that it would be over soon if he could endure just a little while longer.

"Frodo, the shoulders are out. One more push should do it," Aragorn encouraged, and Frodo did his best to summon the strength for even one more. It must have been sufficient, for the next thing he heard was Aragorn saying "It's a boy," a moment or two before the babe itself -himself- let out a wail.

Frodo closed his eyes and tried to wrap his mind around this new development.

"Here, Halbarad, would you take him while I cut the cord? I think Frodo should see him."

Frodo opened his eyes. And all he could say was "Are all babes this . . . messy?"

Aragorn laughed. "Yes."

"Oh. All right, then." He paused. "So all that comes off?"

"Yes, it does. See?" Aragorn took up a washcloth and wiped the babe's face and torso to reveal normal-looking skin underneath. "We'll give him a good cleaning off in a few minutes."

"I see," Frodo said absently, gazing at the child with some wonder. He'd never seen a brand new babe before. He'd leave the fact that it was his until later. For now, it -no, he, the child was most definitely a he- was intriguing. He didn't look as plump as other hobbit babes Frodo had seen, but then, Frodo wasn't looking very hobbit-like at the moment, either. Frodo could also see why there had been so much trouble getting him out -the babe looked rather large to his eyes.

For his part, the babe had settled down and was blinking sleepily, yawning widely, and waving his hands and feet aimlessly. Frodo supposed other people might say the child was good-looking, but he still couldn't get past the muck all over him. Perhaps once he was cleaned off, Frodo would be able to see what was so appealing about new babes that made hobbit matrons eagerly crowd around them.

Frodo was startled from his ruminations by a cramp -not as strong, but a cramp nonetheless. "Now what?" he muttered.

"There is some tissue still inside you that will be coming out," Aragorn explained. "It should be over in a few minutes."

"Yes, and the whole birth thing should've been shorter, too," Frodo grumbled. There was more cramping, but the pain seemed inconsequential compared to earlier, then Frodo felt warmth trickling on his skin, and Aragorn gently pulling on something before it slid out. Frodo could see Aragorn was depositing the whatever-it-was in a basin and covering it with a towel. "What is it?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"The afterbirth. It is the tissues that protected and nourished the babe while it grew. Do you want to see it?"

Frodo shuddered. "No," he answered quickly.

"We will need to bury it a fair distance from the cabin," Aragorn added, and whether he was talking to Halbarad or him, Frodo wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet he wouldn't be allowed outside anytime soon. And what's more, he didn't particularly care to -he felt so very weary that he didn't think he'd want to do much of anything for some time. He shivered and longed for sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Aragorn leaned over and took the babe from Halbarad, wrapping the towel around him so he'd stay warm for the moment, then placed him on the bed. Then Aragorn was right above Frodo, saying, "Frodo, I'm going to help you lie on the floor so Halbarad can get up."

Frodo nodded, then was being eased up by his shoulders and slid down off Halbarad's knees. Halbarad disappeared from behind him, and he felt a stirring of air before being laid down on his back upon a layer of blankets. Another blanket appeared on top of him -well, the top half of him. He could still feel air moving against his legs as he tried to keep them from shaking from cold or exhaustion or whatever it was that had his entire being shuddering like a leaf in a gale.

Aragorn touched his shoulder gently. "Frodo, I need to stitch up the cut I made. It may be uncomfortable."

Frodo sighed and nodded. He braced himself as Aragorn settled on the floor and eased Frodo's legs apart once again. Aragorn removed some wadding from the still-bleeding opening -funny, Frodo didn't remember having anything put there- and carefully washed the area. The Frodo caught the flash of a needle from the corner of his eye and he turned his head away.

Aragorn was right -it was uncomfortable. The needle prickled and the thread tugged, but it wasn't as painful as Frodo had been expecting. That was a mercy.

But it still seemed to drag on interminably, time stretching on endlessly until Aragorn finally said, "Finished." Unfortunately for Frodo, that was followed by, "You are bleeding more than I'd like. I'm hoping your body's natural reactions to birthing will halt the flow, but only time will tell. If it continues, I will need to examine you more deeply inside to be sure nothing has torn."

"Can I sleep?" Frodo asked petulantly. "I just want to sleep." Almost belatedly he added, "You examined me? I didn't even feel it."

"The wash water contained something to deaden the feeling somewhat, so the stitching would not be as painful. I am glad it worked."

Frodo stared at him mutely, waiting for him to answer the question. When he didn't, Frodo asked again, "So can I sleep?" As if for good measure, he yawned big enough to near split his face.

"You may close your eyes and rest, yes," Aragorn replied. "But I will need to check on you periodically to ensure the blood loss is not becoming too great for you to bear. Once I am certain the bleeding is dwindling, we will help you back into bed so you can rest more comfortably."

Frodo didn't bother responding. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed himself to get lost in the sounds of Halbarad washing the babe, the babe's senseless gurgling, and Aragorn stalking around the cabin cleaning up the mess of birth. Moments later -or so it seemed- Aragorn was touching his shoulder and whispering that he needed to check the bleeding. Thus it came as no surprise when there was a rush of cold air on his lower half and hands were between his legs, changing the wadding pressed there.

Then Aragorn was sitting down next to him, asking, "How are you feeling?"

"Sleepy," Frodo responded vaguely.

"I'm going to help you sit up, and I'd like you to drink something," Aragorn warned before slowly pushing him upright.

Frodo tried to help push himself up, but his arms were like loose strings dangling from his shoulders and refused to do anything beyond flailing a bit. When Aragorn got him all the way up, he gasped and had to screw his eyes shut for a minute, as the cabin insisted on lazily spinning 'round him. "Dizzy," he choked out before Aragorn asked what was the matter, and he could feel his heart pounding as he fought to maintain his equilibrium.

"I'm sorry, I should have let you sit up more slowly," Aragorn apologized, rubbing Frodo's back and patiently waiting for him to regain control. When at last the eyes opened again, Aragorn offered the cup he'd brought. "Here, drink this."

"What's in it?" Frodo asked cautiously, suspiciously eyeing the warm beverage.

"It's tea. The herbs should slow the bleeding."

Frodo managed control of a limb long enough to tip the cup enough for him to smell and sip it. Then, finding the contents not horribly disagreeable, he drank it. While he didn't much care whether he was bleeding or not, he knew it would be most expedient to simply do as he was told or he may never get to lie back down.

And he was right -shortly after he finished, he was being helped back down. But then Aragorn did something most unexpected- he didn't leave. Instead, he put the cup aside and began feeling Frodo's belly. No, not just feeling it, he was rubbing it. Frodo squirmed and demanded, "What are you doing?!"

"Some external stimulation can help the womb contract more readily," said Aragorn.

"So you're rubbing me?" Frodo asked in disbelief.

"If you wish to call it that."

And he continued without even pausing. Frodo wished he could think of some witty reply, but the most he could manage was to sputter indignantly, then resign himself to enduring it. There wasn't much else he could do. Eventually the Man appeared to grow bored with it and wandered off, so Frodo obligingly returned to his doze.

Then it started all over again. Aragorn came, checked and changed the cloths absorbing the blood, helped Frodo drink a cup of that tea, and rubbed Frodo's stomach for a while. It became abundantly clear that no matter what Frodo had to say about it, Aragorn was going to do it anyway, so Frodo at length decided to save himself the trouble and tried to sleep during the torture instead.

After a number of repetitions of this aggravation, Aragorn began to look worried. Even Frodo could tell. This time when Aragorn brought the drink, he sat behind Frodo to support him, and while Frodo drank, he began the rubbing already. Frodo considered protesting this change in routine, particularly since it was challenging to drink while feeling the previous cups sloshing around in his stomach. But he decided it would require too much effort to complain, and Aragorn did not appear in the mood to listen anyway. Aragorn kept him sitting upright even after he was finished with the tea, maintaining the "external stimulation" for quite a while, until Frodo urgently requested the chamber pot.

The attempt to use the pot turned out to be more challenging than Frodo had anticipated. His insides did not seem to want to cooperate long enough for him to relieve the tension, and when they did behave as they should, it ached so very badly. It took far more time than usual for him to finish his business, and at the end, he found himself hoping he would not need to repeat the experience for quite some time.

Aragorn finally let him lie back down after that, but if Frodo thought he would get a respite from the rubbing, he was sadly mistaken. The Man resumed right where he'd left off. Frodo sighed and tried to sleep -at least he could do that now. So his mind drifted, hearing but not really listening to the gurgles of the babe as Halbarad tended him and the drumming rain against the roof and sides of the cabin. He idly wondered what time it was, whether it was night or day, as he'd completely lost track.

Frodo was startled back to awareness when Aragorn said, "Halbarad, would you come here? You can put the babe in the basket there."

Frodo cracked his eyes open enough to see Halbarad come into view carrying the basket, which he put on the floor not far from Frodo's shoulder. The other Man squatted next to Aragorn, listening and watching carefully as Aragorn instructed him the proper way to massage Frodo's abdomen. Then another hand was on his stomach, carefully touching and exploring. It must have been acceptable, for Aragorn withdrew his hand and stood. He spent a few moments thoughtfully considering the contents of the bowl that he'd put on the table earlier, then he moved out of Frodo's sight.

He returned with a pitcher and basin and knelt beside Frodo's knees. "Frodo," he said gently. "Your bleeding is still heavier than normal, so I need to check inside to find out why. It will likely be uncomfortable." Frodo nodded, not entirely surprised. Aragorn folded back the quilt, helped bend Frodo's legs into place, then added another towel to the pile tucked under Frodo's rear. He removed the wadding and, after rolling up his sleeves and cleaning his hands, eased one hand inside.

It felt peculiar, to have something back inside as well as being rubbed on the outside. Aragorn's hand seemed to go impossibly far into him, then would stop and slowly retreat, putting pressure on a portion of the passage. Then the hand delved back in and slid out again, feeling a slightly different area. This occurred a number of times; Frodo assumed from the feel that Aragorn was thoroughly (and perhaps a little too thoroughly) looking for anything out of the ordinary in the passage. And he could tell from the Man's increasingly puzzled expression that he wasn't finding anything.

"Halbarad, stop a moment," Aragorn instructed, then said, "Frodo, I need to go a little deeper to make sure everything came out that should have. This may hurt."

Frodo steeled himself as the hand slowly inched inward, reaching the point where it had stopped before and continuing. Then came the painful part, and Frodo clamped his eyes closed and tried not to cry out. He couldn't tell what the Man was doing, he only knew it was stretching and pulling on already irritated tissues.

At long last Aragorn pulled his hand back, and Frodo became more aware of what was going on around him rather than being solely focused on the pain. The babe was crying. Aragorn still looked concerned, his hand smeared with Frodo's blood which he was washing off. Halbarad was pacing, holding the babe and seemingly trying to coax it to take some milk from a spoon. Frodo only watched and observed, feeling rather distant from what he was seeing.

Aragorn stepped outside to dispose of the dirty water, feeling that he was overlooking something important, something obvious that would help Frodo's bleeding problem. His mind went back over long hours of the birth, the hobbit's condition previously... wait. That was it! He hurried back into the cabin.

Frodo was startled from a light dream by his blanket being flung off his shoulders and his borrowed shirt's lacing being untied. "Wha...?" he mumbled.

"Are you still sore here?" Aragorn asked, prodding none too gently around one nipple.

Frodo yelped and tried to bat his hands away.

"Good." Aragorn then proceeded to pinch lightly, drawing some fluid to the surface. "Excellent. Halbarad, bring the babe here." Aragorn commanded as he unceremoniously pushed Frodo up to sitting and settled behind the hobbit. "Frodo, I'm going to have you try to feed the babe."

"What?" Frodo asked muzzily, his head still spinning from sitting up and his mind not yet entirely focused after being so rudely awakened.

"You are going to let the babe nurse," Aragorn said, taking the still squalling babe from Halbarad and holding him in front of Frodo. "You'll need to hold him, first."

Frodo reluctantly allowed Aragorn to settle the babe in his arms; he'd not yet held the child, and he was heavier than Frodo had expected. At least he was far cleaner than previously. The babe stopped screaming, apparently intrigued by this new person holding him.

"Now hold him up so he can reach your nipple," Aragorn directed, placing one arm beneath Frodo's and urging them upward, then using his other hand to guide the babe's head to the proper spot. He latched on greedily, and Frodo gasped in surprise. "Then you let him do the work." Now that the babe was settled, Aragorn let his hand return to the massaging of Frodo's womb, hoping that he would soon feel Frodo's body responding to the child's stimulus.

Frodo gaped in astonishment as the babe sucked at him, apparently getting what he wanted, for he appeared content. The sensations were exceedingly strange, and Frodo wasn't entirely certain what to think of this. He would never have thought this was even possible, much less that it would happen to him. Yes, he'd seen hobbit women feeding their babes before, but seeing it and doing it are two completely separate things.

Frodo's arms were quickly growing tired, and the babe seemed to grow increasingly dissatisfied before he finally pulled away from the nipple and whimpered. "What now?" Frodo asked desperately.

"We move him to the other side," Aragorn said reassuringly and helped Frodo turn the babe around, cautioning him to always keep a careful hold on the babe's head. The child returned to sucking contentedly, and Frodo seemed to sag against Aragorn, no doubt growing weary. But what had Aragorn's attention was what he could feel beneath his fingertips. Frodo's womb was finally tightening of its own accord, without needing his touch to maintain the tension. He'd found no tears or injuries inside, so the bleeding should now slow on its own. He breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief.

When the babe had finished on the second side, Aragorn had Halbarad take the babe to burp and settle down. He tended to Frodo, helping the half-asleep hobbit lie down, then checking the bleeding. As he'd hoped, it had slowed to a more reasonable flow. "Good news, Frodo. You're not bleeding as badly anymore. You can go to sleep on the bed now."

A small smile appeared briefly on Frodo's tired face. "So I'm not bleeding anymore?"

"No, there's still a bit. You will have some discharge for several days, which is normal after birth. And we'll still need to rub your abdomen periodically in upcoming days to encourage your womb to return to its normal size."

"I see," Frodo said slowly, even though he didn't, not quite. "I can really sleep now?"

"Yes, you can really sleep," Aragorn chuckled, finishing replacing the loose bandage of sorts between Frodo's legs.

"Good," Frodo said. And he did just that, not even waiting until he was resting upon the softness of the mattress.


	11. Chapter 11

He was gently shaken awake what seemed mere moments later. It took several monumental efforts to lift his eyelids even the tiniest bit -what, did Aragorn sew them shut while he was sleeping?- and he caught a blurry glimpse of Aragorn hovering too close to his face, peering intently at him. Frodo allowed his eyes to close again and groaned, turning his head to bury it in the pillow.

"Ah, good. Frodo, I need to check on you again, and the babe needs to be fed," Aragorn informed him, as if that excused him so inconsiderately disrupting Frodo's sleep.

Frodo scowled and didn't move, not that he really could. He ached terribly everywhere, or so he sensed as his body gradually, reluctantly roused. He didn't think he'd want to move. Yes, it would be far more preferable to simply lie still until the pain grew bored and went elsewhere...

"Before I help you sit up, do you need to use the chamber pot?" Aragorn's voice intruded in his thoughts.

Frodo did not really want to answer that, remembering the last time he'd used it and how painful it had been. But his bladder had a different opinion, and he guardedly nodded -his voice wasn't up to use just yet.

Aragorn must have seen his nod, for he bent and retrieved the pot. "I will help you," he stated, and pushed Frodo's coverings away enough to move the hobbit's linens out of the way and position the pot for him.

Frodo didn't have the heart or energy to protest, so he just did what he needed to do. Thankfully, it was a touch easier this time, though it still pulled all the areas that were so sore. Only when Aragorn took the pot away did Frodo reflect on the fact that his clothing had been rearranged while he was unaware -last he remembered, he wore a shirt and no linens; now he wore linens and nothing else. He sighed. He'd have no dignity left by the time this was over. That is, if he still had any now . . .

And Aragorn was talking. Again. "Frodo, I'm going to help you sit up so you can feed the babe and have something to drink. I'll check on your bleeding when you're lying down afterward."

Silence. Blessed silence. But Aragorn was watching him. Oh, yes, that's right, Aragorn expects him to reply. "Fine," Frodo said shortly. He couldn't resist muttering, "Not that my opinion matters."

Aragorn said only, "Tell me if you need me to lift you more slowly," as he he began helping Frodo sit up.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, making no sound even as the movement made him feel slightly ill -it would be far more satisfying to throw up in the Man's lap. He gripped the sheet tightly, bringing it with as he was sat up.

When Frodo was mostly sitting, Aragorn sat behind him to help him stay up -Aragorn didn't want to make him move any more than necessary, and sliding him back to rest against the wall was more than necessary. Halbarad brought the babe over, as he'd been directed, and Aragorn took the child and held him in front of Frodo. "You need to let go of the sheet, Frodo," Aragorn coaxed.

Frodo let his fingers relax and the sheet drooped enough for Aragorn to bring the child close enough to nurse. Frodo allowed his hands to be arranged to support the babe. His arms still felt wobbly, so Aragorn had to help him hold the child in place.

Once Frodo was settled, Halbarad brought over the broth they had made for Frodo, and offered it wordlessly to Aragorn. Aragorn in turn offered it to Frodo, who turned his head away. "You must have something, Frodo."

"Why?" Frodo asked wearily.

"You need it," Aragorn stated simply. "And the babe needs you to take it."

Now Frodo was intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"The babe needs you to be able feed him until he's strong enough to be taken to those who will raise him. What little milk we have on hand is not sufficient for his needs."

"Then I will try," Frodo murmured, and took a reluctant sip. If the babe needed it, he would do it, just long enough to get the babe to those who could care for him. He drank the broth slowly, but couldn't quite finish it. His stomach already ached from sitting and what broth he'd taken wasn't helping. He wasn't going to push it.

Aragorn seemed satisfied with this, and took the mug without hesitation, passing it off to Halbarad, who disappeared from Frodo's sight. Then Aragorn was directing him to shift the babe in his arms, turning him 'round to the other side. Once the child was settled, Frodo felt a large hand on his abdomen begin to rub him again.

Frodo shifted uneasily; the motion was making his insides roil in a most unpleasant fashion, and he could almost hear the broth in his stomach sloshing. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the babe suckling, anything to keep his mind away from the nausea that was quickly building. At length, he whimpered, "Please stop."

To his credit, Aragorn did cease immediately. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Please stop.' That... rubbing, or whatever you call it. It- it's making me feel ill." Frodo said faintly, still battling the urge to vomit.

"I see," Aragorn said slowly. "Shall we see if it's better when you're lying down? I must do it sometime, or your womb still may not constrict properly."

"Just not now," Frodo begged, then shivered.

Aragorn's free hand (his other was underneath Frodo's arms, helping him support the nursing babe) snaked down and grasped the edge of the blanket, pulling it up over Frodo's exposed skin and tucking it behind his shoulders so it draped over Frodo and the child for warmth. After securing the blanket, Aragorn's hand passed in front of Frodo's face, nonchalantly brushing the hobbit's forehead on its way by.

"Now what?" Frodo asked warily, suspicious of what the man might be checking for this time.

"You are a bit feverish. It is not uncommon, so do not worry."

Frodo humphed. Aragorn seemed to always be telling him not to worry, which made him that much more likely to be suspicious that he really should be worried. Except that he didn't particularly care . . . which was the only reason he really didn't worry.

The babe grew restless and began to gurgle unhappily, so Aragorn helped Frodo hand him to Halbarad, who circled the room with the babe against his shoulder and patted him, murmuring soothingly all the while. When Aragorn slid out from behind Frodo and gently lowered him back onto the mattress, Frodo was utterly relieved to be lying down again, despite knowing that Aragorn wasn't finished with him yet. He lay limply, eyes closed, as Aragorn moved his coverings so something or other could be peered at. Frodo slipped into a half-doze but was startled back to wakefulness by Aragorn's hand on his abdomen.

"Does this still make you feel ill?" Aragorn asked as he massaged Frodo's belly.

Frodo half-shrugged. "Not as much," he said drowsily, turning his head on the pillow until he felt cool fabric against his skin. He saw Halbarad crouching in front of the fireplace, the babe on the floor as its nappy was changed. A sudden thought came to Frodo, and cold fingers of dread clutched his heart. "Aragorn," he whispered. "Is... is he... like me?" he asked, motioning vaguely.

"Is he like you how?" Aragorn asked, not understanding.

"Down there." Frodo couldn't bring himself to actually say it. "Is he like me? I... I haven't seen him... there..."

Comprehension dawned on Aragorn as Frodo grew agitated, his breaths short and quick in his anxiety. "No, Frodo," Aragorn answered, moving so he could rub Frodo's arm reassuringly without disturbing the belly massage. "He is not like you; he has only the typical male parts." Something made him continue, "Something like this can not happen to him."

Frodo closed his eyes and stifled a sob, then nodded. "Good," he said fervently, all of the nervous energy draining from him with that one word.

"Frodo?"

He struggled to lift his eyelids once more. "Yes?"

"Were you going to name the child?"

"No." The word was almost a sigh. "No, I want them to name him."

"All right." Aragorn patted Frodo's shoulder before rising from his seat on the bed. "They will be honoured, I am certain."

"I wouldn't know what to choose," Frodo said simply, allowing his eyes to drift closed.

As before, it seemed scant minutes before he was woken to attend to his needs and the babe's. He was forced to be awake and alert for as long as it took to feed the babe, get something into him, and lie back down -he did not actually need to be awake while Aragorn checked the bleeding, for which he was grateful. Then he could sleep until the babe again cried to be fed.

It was not overly terrible, he supposed, as long as one did not mind getting one's sleep in bits and snatches rather than one big chunk. At some point in his life it may have even been agreeable, since it meant he could remain in bed virtually all day, but he felt increasingly miserable and wished he could simply sleep without interruption.

Each time he was forced to wake, he seemed to feel that much more achy and tired, and he could tell the fever he wasn't supposed to worry about was getting worse. His sleep began to be troubled by disturbing dreams, and when he woke, he had to fight the clinging wisps of delirium that danced and sang at the edges of his consciousness, promising blissful rest and peaceful ignorance of the outside world. He longed to give in to those promises, but he could not, not while he was needed for the babe's care.

But even that was not entirely right. With time, Frodo had the impression that the feedings were shorter and the babe was fussier than before, but he was uncertain whether he saw aright. It might just be the fever affecting his mind.


	12. Chapter 12

By the fourth day after the child's birth, Aragorn was concerned. Frodo was not well; Aragorn's best guess was an infection of the childbearing organs, though he could not completely confirm that diagnosis without the examining tools that he did not have. At any rate, Frodo's fever was high, his appetite nonexistent, his color poor, and his bleeding was now mixed with another sort of substance more typically seen in infected wounds, though the stitched area remained healthy and was slowly beginning to heal.

All things considered, it was no surprise that Frodo's milk supply was quickly dwindling, but just because it was expected did not mean he had the means to counter it. The small supply of milk on hand would have to serve, but it would not be sufficient for long. They would be forced to do something soon, or the babe, and perhaps even Frodo, would not survive.

"We must take the babe to Peony," Halbarad insisted, coaxing the babe to open its mouth long enough for him to dribble some milk from the spoon into his mouth.

"It is too early," Aragorn contradicted. "Taking the child outside in this weather this early could be fatal."

"And starving isn't fatal?" Halbarad countered.

Aragorn sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. There seemed to be no good answers, and so many pressing questions. "How much longer will the milk last?"

"Three days, maybe four, at this rate. I have been mixing the dried milk in with it to make it last."

Aragorn nodded, thinking as he paced around the table.

"Since you're up already, would you...?" Halbarad held up the babe.

Aragorn took him, absent-mindedly placing the child at his shoulder and rubbing his back, still pacing. The babe gummed his tunic, then urped a little and cooed happily. Aragorn sighed as he felt a warm wetness on his shoulder -he'd forgotten the burping cloth. He carefully moved the babe until he lay in his arms -well, tucked securely between one arm and his chest, since the babe was small enough that only one arm was really necessary to hold him.

The little one's eyes drooped sleepily and he yawned, then snuggled against the one holding him and was soon asleep. Aragorn held him for a while afterward, thoughtfully watching him slumber, and came at last to a decision. "In three days he will be a week old, and you will take him to Peony. I will remain with Frodo."

"And if he gets worse?" Halbarad inquired.

"We will depart for Bree if he should worsen or fail to improve. Should we need to leave before your return, you can meet us in Bree." Aragorn stopped his pacing and gently placed the child in the basket that served as his bed. The babe shifted, but did not wake.

"Very good, Captain," Halbarad acknowledged. "And if Frodo should need more care before the week is up?"

"Let us hope it does not come to that," Aragorn said tersely. "But we can modify the plan should the need arise."

* * *

For his part, Frodo went through the next few days the same way he had the previous ones, though now he occasionally wondered how much longer the babe would need him -it seemed he'd fed him so many times already, and he was so tired . . .

But then after a feeding, Aragorn wouldn't let him lie back down right away. "Frodo, we wanted to tell you that the babe will be taken to his new home tomorrow."

The only thing Frodo could think of to say was "Oh." Then he thought of something else. "How long has it been? I can't seem to keep track of time..."

"This is the sixth day since his birth," Aragorn replied. "We would wait, but circumstances do not allow us to delay any longer."

"Only six days? It seems longer," Frodo said dazedly. "What circumstances?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Because you are ill, your body is not providing sufficient nutrition, and what milk we have is nearly gone. Waiting would only serve to risk his health."

Frodo was silent in thought.

"If you would like to hold him a while or somehow say farewell, you will need to do so sometime today."

Frodo nodded slowly, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he knew this meant he could sleep without interruption and the babe would go to those who could actually care for him properly. But on the other hand, once the babe was gone, he had no reason to regain his strength in sleep -his reason for fighting would be taken away, with nothing left to make him want to continue his existence. He could give in to the delirium, embrace it, and nothing could stop him . . . which, perhaps, wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"You can think about it for a while, Frodo. I wanted to tell you now so you had some warning before tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Frodo said softly, his head spinning. "C-can I lie down now?"

"Yes, of course." Aragorn helped him get comfortable, then left him to his thoughts, which quickly turned into unsettled dreams.

The next feeding came, and Frodo found himself paying far more attention to the babe than he had previously. How he looked, how his tiny fists alternately clenched and relaxed while he fed, how he sleepily nestled up against Frodo's skin when he was almost finished but not quite ready to let go. He was finally seeing that his son (perhaps it was better not to think of him that way, or else fear being completely overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions) had tufts of not-quite-curly hair in about the same shade as his own, his eyes were a light blue-grey that Aragorn said might end up either blue or grey when he grew older, his ears were the tiniest Frodo had ever seen but they still had a visible tip to them (for which Frodo was thankful -he never quite got used to the strange, rounded ears of Men), and his feet had a light smattering of foot hair in the same color as the hair atop his head, but was considerably curlier. Frodo tried to memorize his face, but his eyes were growing tired, and he realized that the child would likely look far different when he was grown, so he let Halbarad take the child back and he surrendered again to his bed.

When Frodo next held the babe, he was drawn to the feel of him, the weight of him in his arms. While trying to shift him from one side to the other, Frodo hesitantly touched the soft cheek, the fine, downy hair, the delicate eyelashes. Then the babe grabbed hold of his finger, clutching it with all of his might and trying to wave it around before dragging it towards his mouth to suck on it. Aragorn chuckled and gently turned the child's head where it needed to be, then helped Frodo liberate his finger.

The babe waved his newly unoccupied hand for a moment, then brought it to rest near his face, flat against Frodo's chest, and left it there for the rest of his feeding. It almost felt like he was leaving his mark on Frodo's heart, in the shape of a tiny handprint, and Frodo's heart clenched with sorrow. Sorrow for what, or even for whom, he was not certain, but he knew he wished with all his heart that none of this had ever happened and, most of all, wished that things could have turned out differently. This was the best outcome possible for the child, yes, but it would have been far better to not need to make such a decision. And he had only himself to blame for that.

Night passed too quickly for Frodo, and all too soon it was morning -or at least, it was what passed for morning for Rangers, though it was before dawn and civilized folk would still be abed. Aragorn helped him feed the babe, and let him take a little extra time to look at him one last time, to press a kiss to the downy forehead, to say good-bye to the small being that had changed his life. After he was lying back down, he resisted going back to sleep even once Aragorn had finished his usual checks, and watched the Men swaddle and bundle the child for his outdoor journey. The lump that they finally laid in the basket hardly resembled the babe they had started with, so he should be more than warm enough, at least.

"Wait," Frodo said suddenly, desperately. "What was his birth-day? I don't even know his birthday . . ."

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "It was November the twenty-eighth, by Shire Reckoning." He turned to Halbarad, "Remember the date. They will ask." He returned his gaze to Frodo. "Was there anything else?"

"No," Frodo answered numbly, shaking his head.

Then the Men were leaving the cabin, Halbarad with the supplies he would need and Aragorn with the babe and the few bundles of baby things they had borrowed from Peony. Frodo listened as the door swung closed, the voices rose and fell as they arranged the packages on the horse, then the hoofbeats, slow at first, then faster, and quickly fading as Halbarad rode away with his precious burden. With some effort, Frodo rolled onto his side so he was facing the wall -he didn't want anyone to see him weep. Dimly he heard the door open again and Aragorn's footsteps enter the room; his senses darkened and he succumbed to grief and despair.


	13. Chapter 13

For much of the day, Aragorn disturbed Frodo as little as possible. He still needed to monitor the bleeding, of course, but it seemed Frodo was accustomed to his touch, for he never stirred, even when Aragorn had to roll him from his side to his back first. A few times Aragorn roused Frodo enough to swallow a few sips of water, which Frodo resisted a bit. His fever was worsening, Aragorn noted mid-afternoon, but he could do little more than put cool, damp cloths on his brow or periodically sponge him down.

He briefly considered using the barrel he'd found to immerse most of Frodo in cool water, but dismissed the idea -if Frodo tried to fight him or became panicked by being so enclosed, he would have a hard time of keeping Frodo calm and keeping the barrel upright by himself. Only if Frodo's fever rose too high would he consider doing such. But it remained fairly steady during the rest of that day and for much of the next day; so his primary concern became the hobbit's disinterest in eating or drinking much. He managed to persuade Frodo to have some porridge for breakfast -the first time eating anything since the morning before- but that little progress did not reassure him in the slightest.

Aragorn did what he could to keep Frodo comfortable; since Frodo did not seem too disturbed by his own fever, Aragorn did not have to do much. Instead, he passed the time by soaking Frodo's old clothing again (they had done so once before the babe was born, but the items were far from wearable, even by a Ranger's standards) and mending and washing some of his own. He strung a makeshift clothesline from the attic ladder to a protruding nail near the top of the doorframe, and soon the quiet of the cabin was punctuated by drips of water plopping onto the wooden floor.

It was long past sundown by the time Aragorn decided to wake Frodo for dinner. Knowing the hobbit would not be pleased about being roused, Aragorn was fully prepared with a bowl of broth ladled out and a mug of willowbark tea poured and ready, both of which he placed on the seat of a chair that he moved from the table to Frodo's bedside. The thought occurred to him that he should have some water close by as well; with the addition of a cup of water his layout was complete and he turned his attention to waking Frodo.

It was just as difficult as he'd anticipated. He began by leaning close to the hobbit's ear and calling his name softly. When Frodo didn't even twitch, Aragorn tried patting his cheek gently, still calling his name. Frodo slept on. So Aragorn stepped it up a bit, shaking Frodo's shoulder a bit and calling his name somewhat louder than before.

Finally Frodo shifted and sighed, then his eyes struggled open. His eyes snapped closed again almost immediately and he turned his face toward the wall with a groan. Aragorn thought he knew the problem; he unfastened the cord holding the curtain against the wall and pulled the curtain out enough to shield Frodo's face from the light of the fireplace. "Is that better?"

One eye hesitantly ventured open, then Frodo nodded slightly and his head returned to its former position. "What is it now?" he croaked.

"It is well past dinnertime and you have not eaten since dawn. I thought you would want some food."

"I don't."

"What?"

"Want any food. I'm not hungry." Frodo started to turn away, but Aragorn caught him with a hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay on his back.

"Regardless of whether you want it or not, you need to eat something."

"No." Frodo shook his head stubbornly and crossed his arms across his chest.

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed -he might be there a while. "Frodo, you need to keep up your strength, and to do that you must eat. Please don't make me force you to take it." All the while he was thinking it would've been better if he'd just coaxed the broth into Frodo while he slept. Depending on how this turned out, he might resort to that for breakfast.

"I'm not hungry," Frodo repeated.

"I will leave you be for the rest of the evening if you have some of the broth I brought. It would be advisable to have some water, as well. The tea is for the pain -I'll let you have it once you're done with the rest."

Frodo scowled. He would prefer just the tea and nothing else, but the Man was giving him no choice there.

Aragorn watched Frodo's expression carefully and had momentary visions of needing to force-feed him, perhaps by pinching his nose closed until he'd open his mouth, but quickly rejected the idea. He would not violate Frodo's hesitant trust in him -he must convince the hobbit to eat, or allow him not to eat at all. "Frodo, remember when I agreed I would let you die, if it came to that?"

Frodo hesitated, then nodded.

"I remain true to that promise, but you must do your part." His voice softened. "Please, just try a bit. I will not force you to take more than you think you can manage."

Frodo really did not want to acquiesce, but something in him relented and he found himself nodding in reluctant agreement.

Aragorn was immeasurably relieved. "Good," he said. "Can you sit up?"

Well now, that was another matter entirely. Frodo found he could prop himself upon his elbows fairly easily, but rising past that required movements that were very painful. As he hesitated, trying in vain to find a way that wasn't painful, his arms began to shake. Before he was willing to admit defeat, Aragorn's arm was behind his shoulders, guiding him up. Oh, but he was going too fast and now he's leaning him forward and what is he doing?! Frodo clutched at the arm that had appeared across his chest and tried to say, "Too fast!" but all that came out was an incoherent whimper.

"Easy, Frodo," Aragorn said from above his head, "I've got you."

Frodo wished he could retort, but couldn't immediately think of a suitable response. Not to mention he needed most of his effort to try not to pass out.

When Aragorn had sat behind Frodo and gotten him settled against his chest, Aragorn realized two things: Frodo really was rather warm, and Frodo was quite pale. "Are you all right?" he asked, before realizing how ridiculous the question would sound to the hobbit. "I mean, are you ready to have some water?" he amended lamely.

"I would be far better if you had just let me be," Frodo answered caustically. "I'll try some water, but no promises."

The sips of water Aragorn coaxed into him went down all right -or at least, it didn't make his stomach feel any worse- so he hesitantly agreed to take some broth. That didn't go nearly so well. From the very first sip Frodo had to fight to keep it down.

Aragorn could tell Frodo was struggling -he was breathing in short gasps, but from pain or something else Aragorn wasn't sure- yet he did not refuse outright, so Aragorn continued giving him measured sips from the bowl.

Frodo had drunk maybe half of what was there when he pushed the bowl away and said through clenched teeth, "...think I'll be sick."

That was a problem. Aragorn didn't have a basin within reach. What's more, he knew if he moved too much, the motion would likely induce Frodo to be sick that much sooner. Trying to hold Frodo as still as possible, Aragorn attempted to set the bowl back on the chair. Naturally, he didn't quite get it far enough and, after a moment of teetering, the wooden bowl clattered to the floor. Aragorn made a mental note to clean up the mess later.

Gingerly, he adjusted his grip on Frodo so he'd have a little more room to move, then leaned over the edge of the bed and blindly fished for the chamberpot with his free hand. At last he felt it, almost out of reach of his fingertips. He stretched a bit further -oh, he would be feeling that later- and managed to inch it closer until he could grab the lip. Picking it up triumphantly, he grimaced when he realized how bad it smelled despite being empty. He would need to clean it better in the future. He held it in front of Frodo, saying, "Sorry about the smell."

It was the smell that did him in. He'd managed to preserve the delicate balance despite being jostled and bumped by Aragorn, but as soon as that smelly pot was assaulting his nose, it was all over. Everything that had been so carefully coaxed into him came right back out. And it hurt so much he wanted to cry, but he couldn't manage that much. He could only hunch over and clutch at his stomach, groaning.

Aragorn almost regretted forcing Frodo to eat, but reasoned it had to be done. The fact that Frodo couldn't keep it down wasn't anything he could control. "Frodo, what troubles you now?" he asked, easing the chamberpot back onto the floor.

"Everything," he said miserably.

"Do you think you can try the tea now? It should help the pain." Frodo didn't answer, so he added, "Or you could lie down for a while first."

"Lie down," Frodo gasped almost immediately.

"All right. Slowly, now," Aragorn cautioned as he got up from the bed and guided Frodo's head back to the pillow. The hobit's face was beaded with sweat, so he stepped aside for a washcloth and pitcher of cool water. Frodo's deathly pale skin felt unbearably hot to the touch, even after a pass with the washcloth; Aragorn folded the damp cloth and left it on Frodo's forehead in a token effort to ease him.

The cloth did feel good, but it was so little compared to the utter misery shrouding his body. He shivered, then whimpered as the involuntary movement awoke the intense ache in his very bones. "I don't feel good," he murmured piteously.

"I know," Aragorn said softly, taking the cloth from his forehead and replacing it with a fresh one. "Would you like to try the tea? It might help a bit."

"I-I suppose," Frodo said hesitantly.

"Don't worry, we'll take it slow and easy," Aragorn assured him, kneeling next to the bed and sliding one arm underneath Frodo's shoulders to make drinking easier.

It took the better part of a half hour to urge most of the tea into Frodo. As Aragorn helped him lie back down, he asked, "Are you comfortable?"

Frodo briefly shook his head and ventured, "On my side instead?" as he slowly started to roll onto his side. Aragorn helped where he could until Frodo was curled up on his side, breathing slowly to calm his racing heart and pounding head.

Aragorn caressed his face with the cloth again before wringing it out and putting it back on his forehead. "Relax and try to sleep," he urged.

Frodo sighed a bit and whispered, "I'll try."

With Frodo settled, Aragorn turned to the tidying up. He mopped up the broth he'd spilled, then stacked the cups and bowl and took them and the chamberpot outside to be dumped and rinsed. He tried to give the chamberpot a decent scrubbing, but he'd forgotten to bring a lantern and the cold was likely to claim his fingers if he stayed out much longer.

So he conceded and traipsed back indoors after a gulp of frigid well water from the tea mug. Once inside, he set the dishes near the hearth while he checked how dry the towels were after their wash earlier in the day. They were still too damp to be useful, so he left them and the dishes to dry on their own. A few items of clothing, however, had dried sufficiently, so he took them down and flopped them on the table to be dealt with. Frodo's original clothes remained of questionable usability; the lad would need all new ones when they were in Bree. Aragorn looked up from the clothing to see its owner quietly watching him. "Frodo? Can't you sleep?"

Frodo shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Shouldn't the tea have done something by now?" he whimpered.

"Yes, it should have," Aragorn replied, kneeling next to the bed and peering at him with concern. "The tea has done nothing for you?"

"No," Frodo whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said earnestly. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" he asked, reaching over the hobbit's prone form to rub his back gently.

Frodo shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

Aragorn let silence reign for a moment, then asked, "Are you too warm?"

"Not really," Frodo said fretfully. "But the cloth has gotten warm."

"I can remedy that," Aragorn said, rising and quickly immersing the cloth in the barrel, wringing it out, and placing it back on Frodo's forehead. "Is that better?" he asked as he resumed kneeling and rubbing Frodo's back.

Frodo nodded slightly, his eyes slipping closed for a time.

Aragorn hoped Frodo had fallen asleep, and when he did not stir for a while, Aragorn stepped away to get some water and a few more cloths, just in case. In the midst of this errand, there was a distressed whimper from the direction of the bed. He quickly turned to see Frodo staring at him. "What's the matter?"

"You left."

"I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"Not quite."

"I will return in a moment," Aragorn promised, gathering what he'd gone for and returning to the bedside, resuming his post. "Is that better?"

Frodo nodded hesitantly, burrowing a bit deeper into the bedding and sighing before closing his eyes again.

This time Aragorn waited to move until Frodo's breathing was slow and even. Then he finished folding the clothing and began packing the necessary supplies for the trip to Bree. Frodo should not still be feeling so unwell, which led him to conclude there was something more going on that he could not find under the circumstances, and to keep Frodo in such discomfort indefinitely would be cruel. No, they must go to Bree -there he could obtain the necessary tools to determine the cause of Frodo's malaise, and it would be far easier to treat whatever he found. He glanced at Frodo to be sure he remained asleep, then started sorting and planning in earnest. They would leave at first light.


	14. Chapter 14

Aragorn was just about ready to rouse Frodo to be dressed for the outdoors when he became aware of hoofbeats approaching. He drew his sword and slipped outside, staying close to the walls of the cabin so the intruder could not discern him in the pre-dawn dimness. The horse slowed as it came into the clearing, and the rider dismounted. "Who goes there?" Aragorn demanded.

"It is Halbarad," came the amused response.

"I did not expect you to return so soon, or with the horse," Aragorn said, relaxing and emerging from the shadow of the building.

"Nor did I," Halbarad answered, patting the horse's flank. "But Mahlon insisted, when they induced me to tell of Frodo's illness, so we can take him more quickly to Bree. We are to return him when we have no further need for him."

"That is well," Aragorn said musingly. "And well timed. I intended to make for Bree at daybreak."

"Frodo is worse?" Halbarad asked, concern evident in his voice as he tied the horse to the post beside the cabin.

"He is no better, and in much pain." Aragorn retrieved a bucket from beside the dwelling, filled it with water, and placed it in the horse's reach. "Maybe there he will be able to finally recover from all he has been through. I would not have him suffer so for any longer than I can help."

Halbarad murmured in agreement as he wiped the horse down. "Then let us leave as soon as we are able. Should Frodo ride the horse, then?"

Aragorn considered a moment. "No, I do not wish to risk tearing his stitches. One of us should ride and hold him -it should minimize the pain of being jostled and keep him warmer, as well."

"Even so, it will not be pleasant for him, if he is in such pain."

"I will see to it that he sleeps through much of it. But come, we must dress Frodo for the journey and finish the preparations."

Aragorn took the time to thoroughly examine and re-pad Frodo's stitches, then carefully began to dress him. He put Frodo's trousers on -they were not suitable for actual wear, but as a layer against the cold they would serve. The socks he'd used when first finding Frodo were pulled up as high as they would reach. On the hobbit's upper body, Aragorn layered Frodo's old nightshirt, then the red shirt he'd lent him over that, and Frodo's coat over all.

By this point Frodo was beginning to rouse, protesting confusedly at the imposition. Aragorn allowed him to wake completely before offering breakfast -which was flatly declined- and water -which was reluctantly accepted- and the use of the chamberpot -also reluctantly accepted.

He explained that they were going to leave, but that he had some medicine for Frodo that would keep him oblivious to most of what transpired. "Why didn't you give that to me earlier, when the tea didn't help?" was Frodo's only question, and Aragorn was forced to admit that what he would be giving him could be dangerous and was best used in very small doses. In fact, he would want to start with only a little bit and see what happened, then give a touch more if that wasn't enough. Frodo was amenable to the idea -not feeling anything would be a definite improvement- and took the tiny bit of liquid offered without complaint.

Aragorn left him be for a moment, to see to a few other things, and by the time he returned, Frodo was feeling decidedly fuzzy. But it never progressed past fuzzy, so he was given another sip. This time Aragorn stayed and watched him anxiously as he slid closer to oblivion. "I'm all right," he slurred before losing track of what was going on and losing the will to care. He closed his eyes.

Aragorn kept a careful eye on his breathing but it remained steady, as did his heart beats. Frodo merely appeared deeply asleep. Perfect. Aragorn picked up the loose-limbed hobbit, slipped his cloak around his shoulders, then shifted him atop the blanket and swaddled him in it. A second blanket was draped over his head, framing his face, then folded around the rest of his upper body. A third blanket was wrapped around his lower half, and the hobbit bundle was ready for traveling.

Halbarad had been loading some of their packs onto the horse while Aragorn prepared Frodo, so all Aragorn had to do was bring Frodo out and they'd be ready to set out. Aragorn hefted Frodo into his arms and strode outside.

* * *

A few hours into the journey, Aragorn realized that holding Frodo high enough to eliminate all possible contact with the saddle was dreadfully tiring. So he adjusted, placing a folded blanket in front of him on the saddle, then setting Frodo atop that so he was sitting sideways in the saddle and leaning against Aragorn for support. This was a far easier position to maintain, so he passed along the advice when he and Halbarad switched places around midday.

With no longer having to concentrate on keeping Frodo on the horse, Aragorn found his mind wandering as he led the horse through the wood. It would likely take another two days to arrive in Bree, even if they traveled through the night, and especially if the storm he could smell coming hit while they were still in the wilds. Unconsciously Aragorn increased his pace, eyeing the overcast sky with suspicion.

The weather held for the time being -the clouds overhead thickened and promised something more to come, but so far held back their burden- and Aragorn was satisfied with their progress that afternoon. As the daylight waned, wisps of misty fog crept from the shadows and danced around them as they plodded along.

Aragorn and Halbarad again traded places at sunset, or close to it -it was difficult to pinpoint that time precisely thanks to the clouds. Aragorn noted that Frodo was beginning to react to being shifted or bumped, but was not yet to the point of waking; he would need to administer more of the medicine soon if he was to keep the hobbit from feeling the inevitable pain of the journey. But not just yet -timing was everything.

Halbarad led the horse steadily on and grew concerned as the fog thickened. It was not an issue at first, but gradually all he could see was the white mist shrouding the landscape, disguising and distorting the trees and bushes. More than once he nearly walked into a tree as it abruptly appeared in front of him. After nearly an hour of those conditions with no improvement in sight, he halted. "Aragorn? I cannot be certain we are going in the proper direction with this fog. We should stop before we lose ourselves."

"Agreed. I'm sure Frodo will appreciate being off the horse for a while."

Halbarad took Frodo while Aragorn dismounted, then they settled against the base of a large tree to wait out the fog. Aragorn held Frodo carefully as he began to wake and struggle against the arms that held him. Finally Frodo's eyes opened and he blurted, "What's going on? Why can't I see anything?"

Aragorn could feel Frodo's heart racing as he started to panic. "There is a thick fog, Frodo. We have stopped so we do not become lost in it."

Frodo relaxed in relief. "Oh, all right." He was quiet for a bit, then asked, "Where are we?"

"About eight hours' journey south and west from the cabin."

"How far to Bree?"

"Perhaps two days more, depending on the conditions. How are you feeling?"

Frodo yawned and shifted his weight on Aragorn's lap. "Tired, mostly. Some parts hurt."

"Are you warm enough?"

He shrugged. "I think so."

"Try to sleep. I will give you more of the medicine before we leave."

Frodo nodded, and tucked his head against Aragorn's chest. He was soon asleep, and Aragorn allowed himself to doze as well. It was so very quiet in their fog cocoon, and the recent weeks had been tiring. Halbarad stood watch, not that anyone was likely to be travelling in these parts. The night passed uneventfully, and the fog quietly thinned until it was again possible to pick out the faint paths trodden through the trees by wild rabbits and foxes and to determine which way their small party should head.

They set out again, Aragorn leading and Halbarad holding Frodo on the horse. The fog receded further, this time coalescing into fat drops of rain slowly descending, gradually wetting hair and soaking clothing. They travelled all day and through the night, hoping to regain some time lost to the fog, stopping only to switch riders or induce Frodo to take more medicine and some water.

The rain grew steadier, and began to freeze on tree branches and blades of grass as the temperature dropped in the night and failed to rise again in the day. The ground became muddy and slick and the going treacherous, so that it was not until well after dark that they arrived at the south gate to Bree. The gatekeeper eyed them suspiciously but let them in upon hearing there was an ailing child in their care.

The streets were nearly deserted, for which Aragorn was thankful. The fewer eyes saw them, the fewer questions there would be to answer later. It was further than he would have liked to the inn he'd chosen -the Horse and Wagon was small and off the main road, and thus ideal for evading notice by most of the Bree populace- especially with Frodo shivering as he was, but in light of all Frodo had endured thus far, the minutes it took to reach the inn were nothing at all.

Once at the Horse and Wagon, the innkeep bustled them into a room at the end of one hall -"to be more quiet-like for the poor lad"- and quickly had a bathtub and warm water brought to them. Halbarad built up the fire while Aragorn prepared the bath water, then carefully unwrapped the still-shivering Frodo. The shaking calmed as soon as he was in the warm water, and he groggily asked, "Are we there?"

"Yes, Frodo, we are in Bree, at the inn. Just rest and let us take care of you, and you'll be feeling better before you know it."

Frodo grunted and slipped back into sleep. Aragorn let him bask in the water for a little longer, then laid him on a blanket in front of the roaring fire for a brief assessment of the damage wrought by the journey. Overall, he was pleased by what he found. The stitches remained whole and in place, and the discharge had not changed for the worse, though it also had not improved, which was cause for concern. He would need to somehow obtain the necessary instruments for deeper perusal so the cause of the infection could be determined. Tomorrow. He must do that tomorrow.

Aragorn almost did not wish to put Frodo back into the same clothes as he'd been wearing all this time, but as Frodo had no others, he had no other choice. He would have to see about new clothes for the hobbit -he could do that while he was out tomorrow. Yes, that would do nicely.

Frodo was gently tucked into the large bed in the corner of the room to sleep the night -and the rest of the medicine- away.


	15. Chapter 15

Aragorn slipped out of the inn an hour and a half after sunrise. While he was anxious to complete his errands and would have preferred to leave by sunrise, the townsfolk did not operate on the same schedule and were only just opening their shops and stands when Aragorn passed by. He first went to the tailor, in hopes of obtaining clothing for Frodo. The stern-faced stick of a man visibly measured him with his eyes as he entered the spartan shop; when Aragorn explained his intent and displayed Frodo's worn garments, his expression grew inscrutable.

Aragorn was sure he was calculating just how much he could pry from this Ranger who desperately needed the items, and was pleasantly surprised when the amount named was less than he'd anticipated. That the man required full payment up front was not unexpected, and Aragorn willingly complied. The tailor seemed displeased that the lad could not come in to be properly fitted, so Aragorn left behind the items he'd brought, to give the tailor something to work from. Aragorn left the shop with the agreement that the nightshirt, which was to be done first, would be ready in one week.

Then he set out to obtain instruments to better examine Frodo. There was a midwife in the northern parts of Bree that had been sweet on him when she learned he was familiar with the healing arts. He'd met her at the apothecary's one of the times he stopped in Bree to resupply, and it seemed that a mere offer to escort her home was enough to spark her interest. He did nothing to encourage her, and tried to avoid her when his gentle denials were insufficient. She'd eventually learned he was betrothed, and they had not spoken since. He rather hoped she remembered enough of him to be willing to lend him a few things . . .

* * *

It was not an altogether pleasant encounter, but she did reluctantly agree to allow him the use of her tools to examine the ailing hobbit, provided that he cleaned them before bringing them back. Aragorn triumphantly returned to the Horse and Wagon inn, a leather bag in hand, just before midday.

Halbarad met him at the door of the room, nearly running into him. "I was on my way to see about lunch for Frodo," he said apologetically.

"Go on, and see about lunch for us, as well. Once we have eaten, we will attempt to find out exactly what is wrong with him," Aragorn replied, gesturing with the leather bag.

"Of course," Halbarad said, and disappeared for a time.

Aragorn closed the door quietly, and spent a moment looking at Frodo carefully. He lay still, breathing evenly, with a pallor on his skin and a touch of fever in his cheeks, and had nearly lost all of the weight around his middle from bearing the babe. A touch to the lad's forehead revealed his fever raged on, perhaps even a bit higher than before, and the rest of his skin felt clammy. Aragorn tucked the bedclothes a little closer around him and set to preparing the instruments for the examination after lunch.

Halbarad returned with stew and bread and ale for them, and what looked like chicken broth for Frodo (though in a place like this, you never could be sure exactly what might be in it). Frodo was disoriented and irritable when Aragorn woke him, and drank as little of the broth as he could manage without Aragorn reproving him. He did not particularly want water either, but at least that did not have any noxious smells, so he drank a whole glass of it. He fell back to sleep soon after Aragorn left him alone to rest.

"You mean not to tell him of the examination?" Halbarad questioned softly as they watched Frodo's eyelids droop, then close.

"No. I hope to do all while he sleeps, so he will wake none the wiser."

Thus, Aragorn waited a half hour past when Frodo slept to be sure he was deep in dreams and unaware of Aragorn's actions. While he laid out the tools on a towel at the base of the bed, Halbarad carefully uncovered Frodo and carried him to the end of the bed. Aragorn would sit on a chair at the end of the bed while Halbarad would kneel on the bed and hold Frodo's legs, with Frodo slid as close to the end of the bed as was possible without him falling off.

They were successful in getting Frodo properly placed at the end, and his legs angled and bent out of the way with Halbarad holding his feet up and out to hold the position. But when Aragorn lifted the shirt, pushed it back, and started to touch Frodo, everything went horribly wrong.

Frodo shrieked and began to struggle like a thing possessed, pulling his feet from Halbarad's grip as easily as if they had been cov ered in grease, then kicked and fought when they tried to hold him down, screaming and yelling "No!" the entire time. One hairy foot planted itself into Aragorn's chest and stomach with such force that the Ranger had to stagger backwards, clutching his chest and struggling to gasp for air, landing with a thump on the chair. Halbarad saw this and immediately let go of Frodo, fearing bodily harm to himself as well. Frodo, now freed, scrabbled backward across the bed until he landed in the far corner where he huddled himself, arms wrapped around his knees as he rocked back and forth, weeping and moaning.

Halbarad rushed to Aragorn, who was beginning to regain his breath. "He can kick . . . rather hard," Aragorn gasped.

"I can see that," Halbarad said wryly. "Though you have to consider you had it coming. He's been expressing a desire to kick you for several weeks."

Aragorn chuckled. "So he has. And he achieved that quite well. I think . . ." he paused as he probed for injuries, then wheezed in pain as he found a tender spot. "I think he cracked a rib. But no matter, it will heal. How is he?" He'd been too blinded by his own pain to see what had happened after he was struck.

"Huddled in the far corner, almost out of reach. I did not pursue him further, in consideration of my own ribs," Halbarad responded with a small smile.

"Better to let him have a moment to calm down before trying to fetch him," Aragorn agreed, finally able to sit up fully and look at Frodo himself. The lad was tightly wedged against the corner, his face buried in his knees, and he was visibly trembling as he wailed and murmured incoherently. Aragorn stood and slowly advanced along the bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress and calling Frodo's name softly.

Frodo didn't seem to hear him, so Aragorn slid a little closer on the bed and called his name a little louder. He still did not react. Aragorn edged onto the bed far enough to be able to touch Frodo, then gently shook his arm a bit, saying, "Frodo, listen to me!"

Finally Frodo responded. He stiffened and tried to pull away. "Go away! Leave me alone!" he begged, an edge of hysteria in his voice.

"Frodo, I just want to make sure you're all right. You might have hurt yourself," Aragorn cajoled.

Frodo lifted his tear-streaked face and, addressing himself to some point over Aragorn's left shoulder, shouted, "You shall not have me again! Get off me!"

Aragorn jerked his hand away as if he'd been burned. "I am ten times a fool, Halbarad," he said softly without taking his eyes from the anguished hobbit. "He's remembering the attack." He waited until Frodo stopped panting so hard and demanded, "Frodo, wake up! Hear me, Frodo. It is I, Aragorn. I want to make sure you're all right."

There was a knock at the door, and Halbarad moved to answer it. Aragorn heard him reassure the innkeep that all was under control, the lad was just delirious. He chuckled as the innkeep asked yet again if there was anything he could do for the poor thing; it took Halbarad a good while of convincing him that they would be fine before the door finally closed.

When Aragorn returned his full attention to the hobbit, Frodo was blinking dazedly. "Frodo?" he asked cautiously. "Are you with me now?"

His question was met with a blank look. "I had the most horrible dream," Frodo murmured.

"I must apologize for that," Aragorn admitted. "I'd hoped to examine you while you slept so you would not know of it, but instead woke the memory of what happened to you. I am sorry."

Frodo nodded as one in a dream. "Is that why I ache so?" he whispered.

"It is possible. Would you come here so I can make sure you were not injured?"

He slowly uncurled and crawled toward Aragorn, nearly tripping himself with his shirt several times. "Why did you want to examine me? Haven't I been through enough?" Frodo asked plaintively.

"I want to determine the cause of your illness. I fear you have an infection, which is not the usual course of things after giving birth." He quickly checked his arms and legs for bruises or cuts -nothing. "Please lay back; I need to be sure you did not pull any of the stitches out."

Frodo obeyed silently, only sighing and closing his eyes when Aragorn pushed the shirt up so he could see.

The area looked slightly irritated, but that could as easily be from sitting on the horse for three days as from his brief struggle, so Aragorn concluded that he was no worse for the wear. When he was about to tell Frodo so, he noticed Frodo was nearly back to sleep already; his ailment was certainly taking its toll.

He sighed and moved to stand, but was stopped by the sharp pain from his injured rib. "Bother," he muttered, and tried to stand again.

This time he was halted by Halbarad's hands on his shoulders. "We had better bind that before you do yourself harm," Halbarad reproved mildly. "Take off your shirt while I fetch some cloth."

Aragorn obeyed -he knew Halbarad was correct- while Halbarad went to Aragorn's pack and dug out the bandaging strips he always carried. Before Halbarad returned, Aragorn felt his lower ribs just left of center again, this time counting three cracked ribs and one broken one. "He did a number on me," he said ruefully when Halbarad pushed his hand away to probe it himself.

"He did, indeed. Three cracked, one broken but aligned? Is that correct?"

Aragorn nodded. "See, you aren't so bad at this," he teased.

Halbarad flushed. "You may want to make your determination after I'm done," he retorted. "Arms out." He briskly wrapped the injured area just tight enough to provide support without constricting breathing. He critically eyed his work before stepping back to allow Aragorn to redress.

"You did fine," Aragorn assured him as he slowly pulled his shirt on and buttoned it. "Now, for Frodo . . . It would seem he needs to be aware of what is going on, but it is uncertain whether he can remain awake long enough to complete the examination. We should have means on hand to sedate him if he begins to struggle again, just in case."

"With the medicine from before?"

"No, ether should be sufficient. I do not want to give him any more of the poppy if I can help it." He wandered over to his pack and rummaged around before shaking his head. "I will have to obtain some before we can proceed. I will return shortly."

"You should not overexert yourself," Halbarad contradicted stubbornly. "I will go for the ether."

"Going to the apothecary is not overexerting myself," Aragorn said with some amusement, but unwilling to back down.

"And what of Frodo? If he should wake confused, I may not be able to calm him."

"There you have a point," Aragorn conceded. "All right, go in my stead. I will await your return."

While Halbarad was gone, Aragorn fidgeted with the instruments and checked the level of oil in the mirrored lamp for the hundreth time before rising from the chair and pacing about the small room. His gait was unsteady at first as he adjusted to his bound ribs, but he quickly adapted to the inconvenience.

Halbarad eventually returned -Aragorn had to admit he was not gone long, it only seemed so to his restless state. Aragorn woke Frodo with a gentle hand on his shoulder, a calm voice reassuring him that he was not going to hurt him, he only wanted to help. Frodo roused reluctantly, but without incident. "You promise it won't hurt?" he asked in a small voice as Aragorn helped him lie down at the end of the bed.

"If I need to do anything that will hurt, I will make certain you do not feel it." It was not something he'd thought of in advance, but it seemed right to say at the time.

And it did seem to reassure Frodo, who laid back without further questions. They resumed the same positions as before after Halbarad lit the lamp and Aragorn washed his hands. Halbarad had to adjust his grip slightly on Frodo's ankles for Frodo's comfort, then he nodded to signal Aragorn could proceed.

"Frodo, what I am going to do is use a device that will allow me to look inside you, rather than simply putting my hand in and feeling around. So it will feel strange, but it won't be as large as my hand. All right?" Aragorn had decided to keep the hobbit awake and aware by talking to him and having him respond, and hopefully it would also help him relax a bit during the procedure.

"All right," Frodo answered shakily, a wave of warmth washing over him. And that was in addition to the flush of humiliation at being stuck in this position yet again. Would it never end?

"Right now I am putting some salve on the device so it will go in more easily. I apologize in advance for it being somewhat cold to the touch."

Lovely. Not only was he going to put some thing into him, it was going to be cold. Just wonderful. Could it possibly be any worse?

"Frodo, I need you to spread your legs a bit more."

Spread more? How far did Aragorn think he could go? But no, here's Halbarad doing it for him, dragging his legs apart by angling his ankles outward.

"Good. I'm putting it in now. Try to relax," Aragorn warned before sliding it in.

Frodo stiffened, but tried not to move -he knew Aragorn would reprimand him if he so much as twitched. When the strange, cold thing began to press outward against the passage, opening it for view, Frodo knew it could not be any worse. There was just no way it could be worse.

"You're doing well, Frodo. Now that it is in and open, I can see better to determine where the infection lies. To assist me, I have a special lamp that uses mirrors to direct the candlelight all in one direction."

. . . he was wrong. It could be worse. Not only was he open for view, there was a special lamp to light the way. Now his degradation was complete. If he could just melt through the floorboards, life would improve greatly.

"Frodo, you're tensing. Please try to relax, or will hurt."

Great, just great. Now he's being told to relax, as some strange device is holding him open to view and air is teasing parts that should never be exposed. And Aragorn was silent, no doubt peering intently at areas Frodo didn't even know were there a few weeks ago.

Then Aragorn spoke. "Frodo, there is some material in your passage that is hindering my view. I will need to insert an implement to clear it away so I can see better."

"Material?" Frodo questioned nervously, clutching at the sheets. He was spread open, lit up, and now things were getting stuck up him to clear away "material". Just lovely.

"The discharge you've been having. It's not uncommon, but its presence is preventing me from seeing clearly. Now do not move, or I could injure you unintentionally."

When he felt the slight pressure inside, Frodo couldn't help but try to pull away, even as Halbarad held his ankles more tightly to keep him in place. He whimpered; the scraping was grating on every raw nerve in his body, and each touch sent fire coursing through his veins.

"Just one more moment, Frodo," Aragorn reassured him, then said, "All right, that part is done."

Frodo was about to let out a sigh of relief, but then he remembered Aragorn was still down there, still staring up his private parts with that special lamp. He groaned and tried vainly to convince himself that he no longer existed. When that didn't work, he had to settle for waiting for Aragorn to be finished.

Time dragged on and Frodo began to wonder if Aragorn fell asleep down there. After all, what else could be taking him so long? But then Aragorn made a pleased-sounding grunt, and Frodo just had to ask. "What is it?" That came out more of a whimper than a question, but it would have to do.

"I believe I have found the source of your distress."

Frodo just barely kept himself from saying what he was thinking, but didn't keep himself from thinking it: 'You are the source of my distress!' Instead, he asked reasonably, "What?" Well, it would have sounded reasonable if he weren't tired and ill and wishing mightily to be anywhere but here at this particular moment . . . to Aragorn it likely sounded rather abrupt and quite perturbed.

"It appears part of the womb's opening was torn during the birth, and the tear became infected and developed an abscess. I will need to drain it, clean it, and apply a poultice to it to be sure the infected material is removed. Once that is done, you should finally begin to feel better."

Frodo could not help whimpering at that description. It all sounded very intimidating. "Will it hurt?"

That seemed to give him pause, for it was a moment or two before he answered. "It very well could, so I will make it so you sleep straight through it, however long it may take."

"When are you going to do that?"

"Right now, if you consent to allow me to do so."

"Oh." Well, while doing it now would lengthen the already disagreeable situation, it would mean that the dratted thing would only have to go in him once, not to mention that he just might not ever have to lie like this in front of Aragorn again . . . "Go ahead," he whispered. "I could use a nap."

"All right, Frodo, I am going to put a piece of cloth over your nose and mouth. Breathe deeply, and you will be asleep in a moment or two. Ready?"

Frodo nodded. He felt Aragorn lean forward over him, and the cloth descended. He breathed in once, twice, and all was merciful blackness.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting! Between traveling for the holidays and packing up to move halfway across the country (okay, so it was a little less than that...), I've not had much time to sit down and think, much less get online. So I'm posting two chapters today -last week's installment and the one I should be posting tomorrow. Tomorrow I start a new job, so I wanted to get this up so I don't forget in the excitement. ;)

Oh, and if you're curious, this story will have a total of 25 chapters. Happy New Year, everyone!

* * *

Frodo woke to a throbbing headache, an aching body, and a bewildered mind. It took him several minutes of lying with his eyes closed in utter concentration before he could even recall who he was, much less what he was doing wherever he was and why he was wherever he was. Slowly the memories returned, until he remembered everything. Then he almost wished he hadn't remembered -when one's last waking memory is a Man peering inside you, it is perhaps better to not recall the incident at all. Rather, he wished he had the strength to pull the covers over his head so he'd never have to face that particular Man ever again.

Unfortunately, that particular Man was talking to him. "How are you feeling?"

Maybe if he didn't open his eyes, he could pretend it was the other Man asking. "Sick," he responded shortly. Neither of them really deserved politeness at this point.

"Are you still feeling as you did before, or has anything changed?" the Man persisted.

Frodo heaved a sigh. "I have a headache," he said petulantly.

"We can make some tea for you that might help. Is there anything else?"

"The usual," Frodo said vaguely, his eyes still closed against reality.

"I see."

Frodo doubted that the Man really did see, but since it brought the interrogation to a halt, it was all the same to him. He left his eyes closed and waited for something else to happen, since something undoubtedly would. It just seemed to work that way around that particular Man.

And, of course, that Man started talking again. "I was successful in cleaning out the abscess, and placed a poultice on the area to help draw out the infection. I will need to remove and replace the poultice in a few hours' time."

"What?" Frodo's eyes flew open and he glared at Aragorn. "What do you mean you need to replace it?"

"For the best effect, the poultice needs to be on the wound for a while, and the mixture loses its potency after a time, so it must be replaced," Aragorn tried to explain.

"So you have to go poking around inside me yet again?" Frodo demanded, growing agitated at the very thought.

"In a manner of speaking. Removing and replacing the poultice does not require extensive prodding. It's a very quick switch."

But Frodo would not be placated. "Oh, no you don't. I refuse to let you near me like that ever again," he said, beginning to inch away from the Man where he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Frodo, this needs to be done -must be done- so you can recover," Aragorn said severely.

"I don't care. I'll be fine without it," Frodo insisted desperately, his back now against the wall of the room. He was just out of the Man's reach, and he'd prefer to keep it that way. He snatched the pillow from where he'd been lying and jammed it in place against the headboard, saying, "I won't do it, and you can't convince me otherwise." He turned his back to the Man and curled up resolutely.

"I will let you think about it for a while, Frodo, but at the very least, the poultice that is there must be removed, or you could become extremely ill. Either you will have to pull it out, or you must allow me to do it."

Drat. That wouldn't do. He didn't want to stick his fingers in there any more than he wanted Aragorn down there again. He sighed and tried to think of a convenient way out of both of those alternatives. Unfortunately, when Aragorn roused him several hours later, he still had not invented an escape from the forthcoming torture.

"Well?" Aragorn asked placidly. "Are you going to do it, or shall I?"

Frodo frowned and sighed. "What exactly are we taking out again?" he asked, evading the question.

"The poultice on your wound. It was wrapped in a bit of cloth to ensure proper placement. Removal will entail locating the edge of the cloth and pulling it out."

"Oh." Frodo considered this for a moment, pondering whether he'd really be willing to attempt that himself. No, most certainly not. The mere idea of reaching in and needing to remove something made him more than slightly queasy.

"So?" Aragorn pressed.

Frodo answered reluctantly, "You can do it."

"Wise decision, Frodo. Now, if you will come to this side of the bed where I can reach you, it will be over quite quickly. Halbarad, would you come hold his ankles again so he doesn't kick me?" Aragorn said, pulling his chair to a spot right next to the bed.

Frodo slowly crawled to the other side of the bed, trying to delay this as much as possible. Well, that, and he quite honestly did not feel well still, and he couldn't manage any more speed at the moment. Aragorn seemed to be aware of this and did not hurry him along, waiting patiently until Frodo flopped himself down in front of the Man.

Aragorn tried not to smile. The hobbit was very... inventive when trying to avoid something. "Frodo, I don't need to look at your side. If you wouldn't mind turning yourself around a bit, that would be most helpful."

"I'm getting there," Frodo groused, inching himself around so his bum -rather than his left side- was toward the Man. "Satisfied?"

"That is much better, thank you. Now, Halbarad, just stand next to me and hold his ankles from there -this won't take long. Frodo, bend your legs toward your chest and spread them apart, please."

Frodo rolled his eyes -as if he didn't know quite well which position the Man wanted him in by now!- and complied hesitantly, his shirt hiking itself up to his hips, revealing everything below.. He really didn't want to do this . . . he'd thought he'd be done with this sort of thing after the last time. But no . . .

"Frodo, I need you to scoot a bit closer," Aragorn's voice broke into his reverie.

Hew close could he possibly need to be?! When he didn't move, he felt Aragorn's hands slide him even further toward the edge of the bed, until he could feel the Man's breath and his mind could only imagine what sort of view Aragorn had right now. For what seemed the umpteenth time in his recent days, Frodo wished he could vanish through the floor and never be seen again -particularly in that position!

"I'm going to touch you, and I will need you to relax so I can pull it out."

Even if Frodo had wanted to relax, the feel of the large fingers plunging in and beginning to pull on something would have been more than he could take. He tried to pull away from the fingers and the strange sensation of the cloth being removed.

"Frodo, relax!" Aragorn commanded. "This will be painful if you do not."

"I'm sorry, but I don't like having fingers shoved in there," Frodo retorted, trying not to cry. Why couldn't they just leave him alone, already?

Aragorn's voice softened. "I understand, but that does not change what I must do. Try to relax and I promise it will be over quickly."

"I am trying," Frodo whimpered. Evidently it was enough, for the strange sucking, jerking movement resumed until he could feel it finally gone. But the hands remained holding his ankles in place, and almost before he could wonder what was going on, a finger had returned and something was going up. Nothing was supposed to go up! He struggled against the hands on his ankles, and nearly fell off the bed when they abruptly released him. He scrambled to the wall and demanded, "What was that?! I thought you said we were only going to remove it!"

"I said no such thing," Aragorn replied calmly, wiping his hand on a towel. "I said that at the very least the existing poultice must be removed. I never promised that would be all I did."

Frodo could only sputter in indignation and try not to burst into tears of frustration. "Why can't you ever just leave me alone?" he moaned, burying his face in the pillow as he curled up right next to the wall again.

Aragorn let him be, for he was quite certain nothing he could possibly say would placate the hobbit. He would wait to explain himself until Frodo was in a more reasonable state of mind.

But it seemed that would not be anytime soon. Frodo remained huddled out of reach, possibly sleeping -it was hard to tell when the back of his head was the only part visible- for several quiet hours until Aragorn approached the bed again, saying, "It is time to remove that poultice, Frodo. If you'll come here, I can do that for you."

"No."

"No?"

"I won't come there. You aren't going to touch me again."

Aragorn tried to keep his patience. "Frodo, it is as I explained to you previously. It must come out or it will make you extremely ill."

Frodo's shoulder moved in what Aragorn could only interpret as a sigh. "I know. Go away."

"I will not 'go away' until that poultice is taken out, one way or another," Aragorn said, brooking no argument.

Frodo dearly wanted to throw something at the Man, but his only ammunition was his pillow and he needed that more than he needed to throw something. Couldn't he understand that Frodo wanted no more of this? No more of the treatments and the examinations and everything else Aragorn had been bothering him with ever since he'd found him in the wood. Fine, he wanted it out; that could be done.

He wriggled a bit until he could get a hand down there then, with a shudder of disgust and a vague sense of apprehension, reached in for the supposed piece of cloth that he should be retrieving. In fairly short order he located a corner and began to tug. Oh, did that feel utterly strange! He continued despite his distaste, and soon he felt it come free. He did not even look at it, just lifted the bedclothes enough that it wouldn't touch them, and held it out towards the Man, grasping as little of it as possible without dropping it on the blanket.

"Thank you," Aragorn said mildly, taking the limp cloth from him. He had seriously wondered if Frodo would find it in himself to pull it out himself; evidently he underestimated the hobbit yet again. The next trick would be to get him to eat something . . .

But Frodo was not nearly as amiable toward that idea. He flatly refused several times, accepting only water if he accepted anything at all. As the hour grew late, Frodo grew increasingly incoherent and unreasonable, and Aragorn began to be concerned. He'd hoped that treating the abscess would be all it took for Frodo to begin to improve; evidently that was not the case, as Frodo's fever was now the worst he'd had.

After Aragorn was unsuccessful in inducing Frodo to take anything to drink for dinner, Halbarad asked, "Should we summon his relatives? We have not yet sent the letter he wrote, and it might help him to have family close."

Aragorn blinked in surprise. "I had forgotten that letter existed. Did you take it from the cabin? I did not."

"Yes, I have it here in my pack," Halbarad said, going to his pack and pulling forth the folded letter to Frodo's kin. "I thought of it just before we departed for Bree."

"I am glad, for if it had been left to me, the letter would be far out of reach." Aragorn briefly scanned the letter, then produced pen and paper to scrawl a brief note of his own to the letter's recipients. Once done, he carefully looked both documents over, then realized something rather important. "Halbarad, do you see any sort of address anywhere on this paper?"

Halbarad took Frodo's letter, scanned it front and back, then frowned. "He does not even address his aunt and uncle by name," he said unhappily. "How are we to send it if no one but him knows for whom it is intended?"

"My thought exactly," Aragorn admitted, and his eyes strayed to the hobbit on the bed. "Perhaps I can get him to tell me," he said thoughtfully. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch Frodo's shoulder. "Frodo," he said softly, "We need to ask you something."

Frodo mumbled something in his sleep and did not move. Aragorn tightened his grip on the shoulder and pulled it so that Frodo would roll onto his back, which he did limply, unresisting, his head lolling on the pillow. Now Aragorn could reach him a bit better. "Frodo," he said again, gently patting the hobbit's cheek, "Who cared for you in the Shire?" As an aside to Halbarad, he said, "He really is far too warm. We should prepare a bath after this."

Frodo opened his eyes, staring vacantly into space. "Nobody," he murmured dreamily. "Nobody cared for me. Why do you think no one came and found me after I left?" Then he sighed and closed his eyes and returned to whatever place Aragorn had summoned him from.

"He mistook what I meant by 'care'," Aragorn admitted. "I should have asked who was his guardian, since I know hobbits are careful to designate those."

"Perhaps next time," Halbarad said with some amusement. "Should I go request bathwater be brought up?"


	17. Chapter 17

A small part of Frodo was aware that he was still feeling abominable and, in fact, was perhaps even feeling worse than before. The rest of him blissfully embraced the delirium, the distance between him and his pain/suffering?. But he was soon aware even this distance had its pains -he was burning. His entire being was on fire or immersed in fire -he couldn't tell which, but it did not make much of a difference either way. His mind fled, but even his dreams were dark and troubled, full of fear, pain, and despair.

Then he felt something new: a coolness that fought the fire. It was creeping over him slowly, more slowly than he'd like, but it was advancing all the same. He was almost completely engulfed when the movement stopped, and he tried to voice his complaint, but nothing came out. Then he felt something else -a cloth, perhaps?- smoothing some of the coolness over his exposed skin -his shoulders, he realized, almost startled to remember he had a body at all, and he was immersed in something up to his chest.

But the cloth didn't have the same effect as sitting in the stuff did, for he could feel the coolness beginning to warm to match his skin, and left his skin just as hot as before. Then the cloth left and he was abandoned to his heated misery. At least now he was aware of his body again, though that may not be entirely good, since it hurt all over. His head was resting on the edge of something, and he wondered if that was why the cool stopped partway up. If he could only get it off, perhaps then he would feel the coolness all over? It was worth a try.

He readied himself -he just knew that trying to move would hurt- and made one good effort to lift his head enough to free it of the edge. He succeeded, and his body listed sideways until he felt himself go under and he reveled in the relief washing over his skin. When his sigh emerged as bubbles, he realized that the coolness was water and he was now submerged. He could not breathe here, and he found it distinctly unlikely that he would be able to manage pushing himself up for air. The irony of him meeting his parents' fate was not lost on him, even as his mind began to swim from not breathing.

Then abruptly there was an arm hefting him up by the armpits, and he dangled limply from it as a hand patted his back with some force until a gasp was forced from him and he began to choke and cough. Mercy, did he ache so! A towel was patted over his face, drying up some of the rivulets, though more continued to run down from his hair. He was being sat back down in the water, his head again propped on the edge, but this time a pair of hands held it there.

A voice was demanding something of him, demanding 'why' from him. He struggled to open his eyes, seeing a blurry face before him that simply refused to focus itself, and he said simply, plaintively, "Hot."

The owner of the voice seemed to understand; he reached forward and the cloth was again smoothing the coolness over his exposed skin. "Does that help?" the voice asked.

Ah, he was starting to understand things again. Now if he could just make himself understood . . . "Face hot," he asserted, and a voice behind him laughed.

But the other did not laugh. Instead, Frodo hazily watched his movements as he wetted another cloth, folded it, and made to place it on him. "Close your eyes," the voice urged.

Frodo was only too happy to do so; he was beginning to add a pounding headache to his list of complaints. The cloth then settled itself over his forehead and eyes, and that felt very nice indeed. "Better," he sighed. He proceeded to doze there in the water, lulled by the swish of the cloth sweeping over him. At some point the hands stopped holding his head in place, and he could feel the water stirring as more was added.

How long he was in the bath he wasn't sure, but when he was finally lifted out, he no longer felt nearly so hot. He was wrapped in a towel and dried briskly while perched in someone's lap, then a shirt was pulled onto him and he was being lifted again, and this time he was deposited in bed. Hands helped him onto his side, where he curled up happily and was soon asleep.

Aragorn watched him sleep until well into the night, concerned that the fever would again worsen or he would otherwise sicken further. When nothing of the sort happened for several long hours, Aragorn dared to let himself hope that Frodo would finally begin to heal.

Both Men were startled by a knock at the door. Halbarad answered it to find a woman standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hello, good-looking. Is that Ranger buddy of yours around?"

"Right here, Allison," Aragorn said, coming to the door so Halbarad could escape.

"So when were you planning to return my equipment, hmm?" she demanded, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "It's been a day and a half, and I have a job to do which, I might add, is made far more difficult with the lack of certain tools."

"I wasn't sure I was done with them yet," Aragorn tried to explain, but she pushed past him and swept into the room, searching for her beloved bag. In so doing, she spied the hobbit curled on the bed and turned on Aragorn. "Don't tell me you used my instruments on her, poor thing. They're much too large!"

"Yes, I borrowed them for use on him. The need was dire, and I was careful."

"Him? He's one of those, then." Allison swept over to the bed and touched her hand to Frodo's cheek, his forehead, then brushed his hair carefully out of his face.

"'One of those'? You have seen such before?"

"Only a few times, and they always leave town before getting to term. I've always wondered if they could survive the birthing. Did he birth, or did he miscarry?"

"He gave birth, and has been unwell since, though he was in poor condition even before."

"He feels rather warm," she said thoughtfully in agreement. Then she smiled as Frodo's eyes slowly opened. "Hello, darling. I'm a midwife. Would it be all right if I took a look at you?"

When Frodo heard a female voice close by and felt a far smaller, far softer hand on his skin, he'd half-wondered if he'd gone mad. But no, she seemed quite real, and Aragorn seemed discomfited by her presence, if his stiff posture were any indication. She had a friendly face and seemed nice enough, he supposed it wouldn't do any harm . . . Slowly, he nodded his head in acquiescence.

"Splendid, dear. This won't take but a minute," she said with obvious delight as she began to gently feel down his neck, across his chest, and around his stomach, carefully pushing back the blanket just enough to have an unencumbered reach. She seemed pleased at what she found. "You're doing very well, sweetheart. Now, would you allow me to poke around your lass bits for a moment? I want to make sure the blunderer didn't do any damage with my instruments. If he'd asked, I would have given him the ones I've modified for hobbits." She threw a glare over her shoulder toward Aragorn.

Frodo blushed at her very straightforward reference to the parts he would rather not mention . . . then stiffened as he contemplated what such a request might require. "Would it involve any . . . implements?" he asked cautiously.

"No, none at all. Just my hand," she replied cheerfully, holding up one hand to demonstrate.

He looked at it a moment -my, was it smaller than Aragorn's!- and considered. No implements . . . what could it hurt? "All right," he said softly. "How do you want me to lay?"

"Just as you are on your side is fine. I'll just need you to lift up the top leg a little, then bend your knee and put your foot down so you don't have to hold your leg up. Yes, like that. Wonderful. Try to relax, and let me know right away if I'm hurting you." She had bent down to wash her hand in the basin, and when Frodo was settled, she patted his bent knee with the other hand and set to work.

Frodo tried not to think about the fact that it was a female touching him, though he had to concede she was quite skilled -he knew she was probing, but it felt nothing like the poking Aragorn would have been doing in her place. She looked thoughtful, and murmured, "Got a bit of a tear there, but it's healing now . . . nothing else noticeable . . ."

Then she was done and was rinsing her hand. After she'd done so, she tucked the blankets back over him, saying, "You did wonderfully, dear heart. I didn't find anything that would keep troubling you, so you should be feeling better very soon. If you aren't feeling better in a week, make sure one of these louts sends for me."

Frodo nodded drowsily. "Did they send for you this time?"

Allison laughed merrily. "No, I came to retrieve what that fellow over there decided to borrow and not return promptly."

"Oh," Frodo said, too tired for anything more complicated.

"Sleep, poppet. You'll be better before you know it." She rubbed his back to help him along, and he was soon sound asleep. She looked over at Aragorn. "Let me guess: the tear was infected."

Aragorn nodded. "I had to drain the abscess yesterday."

"Just yesterday? He seems too healed for it to have been yesterday." Allison looked down at Frodo fondly. "Resilient little folk."

Aragorn meekly handed her the leather bag, which she snatched from him as she stood. "Make sure you call for me if he isn't feeling better in a week's time. And for goodness' sake, get the lad a haircut!"

She vanished in a swirl of skirts and was gone as quickly as she came.

By the end of the designated week, Frodo was almost disappointed that his fever began to recede, as it would mean she wouldn't need to be called for. It had been nice to have someone gentle and obviously knowledgeable take a look at him; while Frodo was sure Aragorn did his best, he got the feeling at times that Aragorn was fumbling for the right answers that would make him feel better, while she exuded self-confidence and assurance that what she said would be the case. Even so, she reminded him of a kindly aunt more than a healer. And it had been so long since anyone used a term of endearment towards him, much less a handful of them! He had to admit, sweetheart had probably been his favorite . . .


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter! I've been a bit overwhelmed by starting a new full-time job, trying to get everything set up for my apartment, figuring out what I need to do to get all the stuff in order for my car... being in a new place is exhausting. ;) I definitely intend to resume the weekly updates, though if the thought occurs to me I may post a little more frequently to make up for this brief hiatus.

* * *

Frodo was no longer certain how much time had passed -he'd stopped asking what day it was after the week deadline had expired- but it seemed interminable. That is, when he wasn't sleeping. And he was still sleeping quite a lot. But when he was awake, he was ready to go mad from boredom. Watching the two men was only interesting for a while, and inevitably one would leave, and the other would sit going through his supplies or watch the fire and anything that might be cooking on it. 

He knew for certain it had been at least a week since they arrived in Bree, then add, what, one day before Allison came, and add a couple more, and perhaps that would get him to today. He wasn't sure, but didn't particularly feel like asking. If he talked to one of them, they would try to start a conversation that would invariably lead to questions about where he'd come from and who is his family. And no matter how bored he might be, he wasn't going to participate in that. So he variously stared at the wall, stared into space, or tried to will himself to go back to sleep (which sometimes worked, but sometimes didn't).

At this particular point in time, Frodo was staring intently at the wood panels that made up the wall, silently counting the knots and other blemishes, when he was startled into losing count by a knock at the room door. Curious, he looked over his shoulder to see Halbarad going to answer it while Aragorn moved toward his weapons.

"May I help you?" Frodo heard Halbarad say cautiously.

"Good day," a cheery voice replied. "Is this where the hobbit lad is staying? Allison mentioned he was in terrible need of a barber's attention, so I thought I'd pay a visit to put him to rights."

Frodo perked up. Now this was something to break the monotony! He watched anxiously for the reply.

Aragorn had joined Halbarad at the door. "Come in, my good hobbit," he said. "Yes, the hobbit lad is here, and I am certain he would be willing to suffer your attentions."

Frodo rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows just in time to see a fairly well-dressed, immaculately groomed hobbit bearing a small leather case step into the room. Almost immediately the other hobbit saw him and bowed briefly. "Albegard Overhill, at your service and your family's."

"Frodo Baggins, at yours," Frodo automatically replied, realizing after he said it what he'd done. His eyes strayed to Aragorn, standing just behind the barber hobbit, and he looked thoughtful.

"Baggins, hm? Can't say I've seen many of them in these parts," Mr. Overhill remarked casually. He eyed Frodo calculatingly, then said, "Now, your hair really is quite a sight. You wouldn't mind me taking care of that for you?"

Frodo self-consciously scratched at his head. "No, I don't mind. It might need washing, though."

"Of course," the barber said briskly. He turned to the Rangers. "I will need a basin and warm water, and will it be possible for him to sit somewhere other than the bed while I work? I realize he has been ill . . ."

Aragorn and Albegard soon settled on an arrangement that was mutually satisfying -Aragorn would sit on the floor with Frodo lying across his lap while the hair was being washed, then Frodo would sit on the low stool (supplied so shorter folk could climb into bed without assistance) while his hair was being cut.

Frodo sat up to allow Aragorn to pick him up, but they were halted by Albegard. "One moment. How long did you say it has been since you last combed your hair?"

"I didn't say, and I really have no idea. Months, at least."

Albegard humphed. "Then I must have you sit for a combing before the hair is washed. It will be a lost cause otherwise."

Aragorn deferred to Frodo, looking at him questioningly. "All right," Frodo hesitantly agreed, and Aragorn placed him on the stool close by the fire accordingly.

Albegard set to work, starting from one side and slowly, very slowly working his way around to the other side of Frodo's head. For all that he tried to be gentle, there were still some grunts of pain from Frodo when he hit particularly bad snarls, and he found some of them were so hopeless that he had to cut the entire mess right out. By the end, Frodo's hair was lying much flatter and looking much smoother than Aragorn ever remembered seeing it.

Then Albegard tucked the comb away and pulled out another one with much smaller tines. "Now, I will check for bugs," he informed Frodo, who shuddered but nodded. The barber had him tilt his head so for a better view of certain areas, and Frodo was sure he was going to have a giant crick in his neck by the time it was done, but at length Albegard announced, "No bugs. That is very fortunate for you, Master Baggins, as the treatments for hair bugs can be quite unpleasant for the skin." He tucked that comb away, and began pulling out some soaps. "Now, the part you will undoubtedly enjoy the most: the wash."

Aragorn took that as his cue and helped Frodo lie across his lap while Halbarad brought the warm water over from by the fire. Albegard poured it into a basin, stirring in a few drops of something from a bottle he pulled from his case. He gently guided Frodo's head into the basin enough that it would catch all the drips, and began carefully wetting his hair with some of the warm water.

Frodo sighed at the warmth and the massaging touch Mr. Overhill used to lather the soap in his hair. His fingers dug in just enough to release any tension without causing pain, and he seemed to know just where and how to apply pressure so that Frodo felt himself relaxing from head to foot. More warm water cascaded over his head, then the hands were back, massaging again, and lingering at the nape of his neck. When the hands finally left, he whimpered his distress, and the other hobbit laughed.

"Ah, yes, he liked that very much," Albegard said knowingly. "But we must start the cutting, or I will not make it home for tea!" he laughed. While he arranged his scissors and combs, Aragorn carried the limp Frodo back to the stool.

Frodo wasn't pleased about having to move, but he did not grudge Mr. Overhill his desire to be home for tea. Goodness knows he'd love to be at home for tea! Too bad there wasn't anyplace he considered home anymore . . . that made it rather difficult. Then a sheet of some kind was being draped over him and tied at the back of his neck.

"It is so you and your shirt do not keep much of the hair," Albegard explained. "Otherwise you would be very itchy!"

Swift, confident strokes put order back into his wet hair, and abruptly Frodo realized he could not see. He thought he could vaguely feel the ends of his hair in the vicinity of the end of his nose.

"You weren't kidding about it being months," Albegard said with some surprise. "In fact, I'd say it's been almost a year since you had a trim."

"That might be right," Frodo conceded from beneath his hair curtain.

"How would you like it? How it is now, just shorter? Or did you want to part it on one side or the other?"

"The same way it is now would be fine," Frodo replied. Part his hair? Why bother? It would all end up going every which way anyway . . .

"Of course."

The sound of the shears started up almost immediately, and Frodo could feel bits and sections being lifted up for their turn at the blades before falling back into place, somewhat lighter than before. After what seemed an age, the hair over his eyes met the scissors, and soon he was gazing into the beaming face of Mr. Overhill.

"Much better!" Albegard enthused, running his fingers through the drying curls, looking for any strays that needed to be clipped. "Is this a good length? Or did you want it a little shorter?"

Frodo felt at his hair, shrugging as he did so. "This should be fine."

Albegard produced a mirror from his case. "You want to take a look?"

Frodo almost didn't want to take the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself in . . . a very long time, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see himself now. But he ventured a peek, in the interest of satisfying Mr. Overhill -yes, the hair was fine, and definitely much better than he was sure it had been, even though he didn't actually see its previous state- but my, was he pale! That gloomy, wan face didn't at all match what his mind said he looked like, and he returned the mirror with a shiver. "Thank you," he said simply. "The length is good."

"Very good!" Albegard said cheerfully, and began packing his things back into his case. "I must be off, then. Do let me know if I can do anything else for you!"

Frodo nodded, and Aragorn took over the conversation. "What do you require for compensation?"

"No, no, do not worry about that. I'm happy to help a lad look his best. Getting close to Yule, you know!" Albegard grinned, then bowed. "Merry Yule to you all, and a good day as well." He strode out the door and closed it behind himself, leaving the room's occupants somewhat dazed and more than slightly confused.

"He was . . . cheerful," Halbarad managed.

Aragorn shook his head, bemused, and crouched next to Frodo to help him up. Frodo stumbled as he stood -why was he so weary when all he'd been doing was letting others do the work?- so Aragorn picked him up for the short distance to the bed.

"I looked awful," Frodo mumbled against Aragorn's chest.

Aragorn chuckled. "You look far better now than you did at certain points earlier," he said lightly. "But you do need rest and it might be a while before you're back to your old self. Don't worry, you'll be all right." He laid Frodo down gently, then pulled the blankets over him. "Now that your hair is clean, we should let you have a bath so you're clean from head to toe at one time. Does that sound good?"

Anything involving something warm sounded good right now, so Frodo nodded sleepily.

"All right, we'll plan on a bath later tonight after you sleep a bit."

If Aragorn said anything after that, Frodo was blissfully unaware of it, for he had already fallen fast asleep. For a while, his sleep was the deep and peaceful slumber of the weary, but all too soon strange scenes and bits of dreams flashed through his mind faster than he could understand them, yet each remained long enough for him to feel disturbed and uneasy. The last bit somehow included pounding hooves and a desperate panic before he jerked awake to see the calm familiarity of their room at the inn.


	19. Chapter 19

As Frodo fully came to awareness, he found the pounding in his dream was actually the pounding of a rather severe headache, and he was very thirsty. Eyeing the wooden cup that usually had water in it on the little stand directly next to the bed, Frodo edged slightly closer, propped himself on one elbow, and reached for it. Naturally, only the tips of his fingers touched it, and only just enough to send it tumbling off the stand and onto the floor with a clatter. He tried in vain to catch it, but the sudden movement only made his head throb the more.

The men, previously unaware that Frodo had woken, jumped to their feet at the unexpected noise, and upon seeing what happened, Aragorn crossed the room to assist.

Frodo was torn between staring forlornly at the now-empty cup on the floor and clutching his head, but he looked up when Aragorn appeared next to him and squatted down to retrieve the cup. "Are you all right?" Aragorn asked.

"Thirsty," Frodo mumbled, unable to articulate much more without remedying that particular problem. Luckily for him, Aragorn was pouring more water into the cup and offering it to him. He tried to take it, but Aragorn would not release it.

"I will assist you," the man insisted, and since he was, after all, giving Frodo what he wanted, he wasn't going to protest. Once Frodo eagerly drained the cup, Aragorn put it back on the stand and asked, "Is your head bothering you?"

Frodo started to nod slightly as he laid back down on his side, but thought better of moving his head at that moment and said instead, "Yes, I woke up with a terrible headache."

"Is it in one specific area, or just all over?"

He hadn't thought about that, and trying to figure it out was threatening to make the pain worse. "Mostly all over, I think."

Aragorn reached over him and began rubbing the back of his neck. "Does this help?"

At first it hurt more, but then Frodo felt the muscles relaxing and he sighed. "Yes."

"It would seem your headache is a result of sitting upright for so long earlier today -your body has forgotten how it feels to support itself for an extended period of time."

"Is that bad?" Frodo asked anxiously.

"No, it simply reflects that you have been ill, and that you will need to gradually reacquaint yourself with normal activities."

Frodo had no answer to that. It made sense -he had been ill for a while, and it seemed to be continuing for the time being- but he chafed at the idea that he would not simply be able to get out of bed and go back to playing with his cousins right away. Not that he was really looking forward to seeing his cousins again, but it was the idea of it that had him bothered . . .

"I think that bath would help ease some of the tension," Aragorn commented almost off-handedly.

"Mmmm... bath..." Frodo sighed, still enjoying the neck rub he was receiving.

"But I'm afraid I couldn't possibly let you have a bath until you willingly consume some nourishment, so I know you won't faint from hunger while in the water," Aragorn continued musingly.

"Traitor," Frodo muttered darkly.

Aragorn waited expectantly for any additional response from the hobbit. At length, it came, preceded by a sigh.

"That's not fair."

"It is more than fair," Aragorn countered. "You don't have to accept."

"You know I won't turn down a bath," Frodo said with a pout.

Aragorn said nothing.

Frodo sighed. "All right, I'll do it. What do I have to have?"

Aragorn nodded at Halbarad, who stood up from beside the fire and brought over a mug, then left the room. "A bit of beef broth, that's all."

Frodo grimaced, but started pushing himself up to sit against the headboard, then held out his hand impatiently. Aragorn obligingly handed him the mug, waiting to let go until Frodo was supporting it with both hands as he cautiously sipped. He made a face, but sipped again, then took a deep breath and started drinking more deeply, gulping it down as fast as possible. When he drained it, he gasped for air as he pushed the mug back into Aragorn's hand. "I've done my part, now you do yours."

At that moment Halbarad returned, with the innkeep and another man in tow, one bearing the tub and the other carrying two buckets of water. They silently set the tub in front of the fire, poured the water in, and left. "They will be back with more water," Halbarad explained to Frodo, who was watching intently.

Frodo nodded, then yawned and closed his eyes for the time being. The other two men came and went three more times before Aragorn declared that was sufficient for their purposes. Without much more ado, Frodo undressed and was in the tub under his own power. He laid back and let his mind drift as he soaked in the warmth, and Aragorn let him be for a while.

He might have dozed once or twice, he wasn't sure, but gradually he became aware that he was being washed. His eyes fought open -it was harder to open them than he'd anticipated it would be- and he feebly protested Aragorn doing it for him.

"Frodo, stop," Aragorn scolded gently. "Let me do this. I don't mind, and I would prefer you not overexert yourself."

"Fine," Frodo mumbled; he had to concede. He felt like his entire body was being dragged downward by a great weight, and it was difficult to move against the heaviness. It did not seem like long at all before Aragorn shook his shoulder and suggested that he might want to get out, as the water was getting cold.

Frodo sighed heavily but agreed, then he was being lifted and wrapped in a towel before being perched on the edge of one of the cozy chairs on the opposite side of the fire from the bed. He didn't resist as he was briskly rubbed with the towel, nor as his arms were guided into his shirt. It wasn't until the shirt was pulled down over his head that he realized it wasn't the red shirt he'd been wearing before -it fit more like it was meant for him, and it was made of a much nicer material. He fingered one sleeve wonderingly, befuddled by the sudden appearance of this soft, blue nightshirt.

"Do you like it?" Aragorn asked, almost seeming hesitant. "I had it made based on your old one, so you wouldn't have to swim in my spare shirt any longer."

"It's nice," Frodo said, hardly believing it. "But . . . why would you do this? You-you've already done so much . . ."

"It was needed," Aragorn replied with a small shrug. "Eventually you will have a shirt and pair of breeches as well." He patted Frodo on the leg and added, "Come, let us get you back to bed before you fall off that chair." With that warning, he picked Frodo up, and Frodo dizzily clutched at his neck as he stood and quickly crossed to the bed.

"Thank you," Frodo whispered as Aragorn put him down onto clean, fresh-smelling sheets. "I don't know what I can do to thank you for all you've done for me," he said hesitantly.

"Seeing you better will be thanks enough, though I know you may not agree," Aragorn said with a wink.

Frodo blushed. "I'll try," he said softly, curling up contentedly.

* * *

It was another couple of days, by Frodo's best guess, until Aragorn brought up the dreaded subject of his family. "So did you live with your Baggins relatives?" Aragorn asked casually one afternoon after lunch had been cleaned up.

"No. I didn't live with anyone, they merely put up with my presence," Frodo said evasively.

"All right, then, did you stay with any Bagginses?"

"No," he said shortly.

"Then who provided for you?"

"I was given what my mother's family thought I needed."

"You stayed with your mother's family," Aragorn repeated, mostly to himself. "Who was responsible for your care?"

"My aunt and uncle were generous enough to take me in," Frodo said cynically.

"Are they your direct aunt and uncle, or are they more distant?" Aragorn pressed.

Ah, he knew more than he let on about hobbit families! "They are actually my first cousins, once removed. My 'uncle' is the son of my mother's brother."

"Who are they? What are their names?"

"That would be telling," Frodo said simply.

Aragorn sighed and sat back in his chair. "How do you expect me to send that letter if you will not tell me who should receive it?"

"I never wanted to write that letter in the first place, much less have it sent!" Frodo retorted. "They will not want me. They won't even want to hear from me."

"You cannot know that for certain until you try," Aragorn persisted.

"I do know it for certain," Frodo insisted. "They do not care for me."

This line of questioning was not working, and Aragorn was sure Frodo would continue to stubbornly refuse to divulge that bit of information. But it was a matter of courtesy that caused him to slip and reveal his surname, so perhaps a similar slip might reveal the names of his guardians. "Who was your father?"

Frodo eyed him warily. "Drogo."

"And your mother?"

Frodo's brow creased in thought, as if trying to figure out where the man was going with this. "Primula."

"Did your father have any siblings?"

"Yes, a brother and a sister, but they could not take me in. That's why I ended up with the . . . with my mother's family."

Oh, he'd gotten so close! "Does your mother have any siblings other than your uncle's father?"

"Yes, she was the youngest of six children. My uncle's father is the oldest and the head of the family."

"Which family is that?"

"Figure it out yourself, I'm not telling," Frodo said quickly.

"All right, I will," Aragorn said, rising to the bait. "Halbarad, who would you say in Bree knows the most about Shire families?"

"I would probably ask one of Butterbur's hobbits," Halbarad replied after a moment's thought. "They are more likely to hear any news coming from the Shire."

Aragorn stood, looking satisfied. "I'll do that. I shall return by evening, hopefully with some information." He took his cloak from the hook on the wall, donned it, and strode out of the room.

Frodo listened to the exchange and watched him go with a growing sense of dread. He had given the man more than enough for any semi-aware Shire hobbit to puzzle out his mother's relatives' names, and it did not help that Buckland was so much closer to Bree than anywhere else in the Shire. His stomach knotted and his heart sank. It would not be long at all until Aragorn found out their names and sent that darn letter.

He wasn't anxious about the response, no -he knew what that would be already- but he was anxious about what these Rangers would decide to do with him once his family refused him. They seemed so confident that his family would come for him that Frodo doubted they'd given any thought to what would happen if they didn't. So he was afraid they'd summarily kick him out, send him back out to live on what he could scrounge (or steal) as he did before. And that was a fate worse than death. Frodo shivered and curled up with his back to the room, trying not to let his mind dwell on the horrific possibilities that might be in store for him.

Aragorn did return by evening, but he did not consult with Butterbur's hobbits; he rather hoped that Frodo would have said something in his absence to make that step unnecessary. But when he asked Halbarad, the other man replied that Frodo had remained utterly silent and still the entire time Aragorn was gone. Not what he anticipated, certainly, but it might still work to his purposes -Frodo might say the names aloud if he thought Aragorn already found them out.

But Frodo still remained steadfastly silent on the subject, and now even avoided Aragorn's glances when that topic arose, though his face paled and he looked like he wanted to be sick. So the next afternoon Aragorn again left on the pretense of asking for the desired information -but this time, that was actually the case. By the time he returned to the Horse and Wagon as dusk fell, he had been given some fascinating insights into hobbit families -and especially how they tended to intermix- and had a few guesses as to the surname of Frodo's mother's family, but it was nothing concrete. He would have to muddle through a conversation with Frodo and hope one of his guesses was correct.

Aragorn waited until after supper -which Frodo did not eat much, if any, of- and asked off-handedly, "So, how was life in Buckland?"

Frodo nearly choked on the water he was cautiously sipping. But instead of responding to Aragorn's guess, he asked, "What will you do if my family does not want me?"

Recognizing Frodo's initial reaction as a sign that he was close to the mark, Aragorn replied, "If the Brandybucks do not wish to take you back in, the Bagginses may offer you a home. Beyond that, you have relatives across most of the Shire, I would wager, and it is unlikely all of them would turn you away."

"And if they do?" Frodo whispered.

"We can try to find you a home here or in one of the neighboring villages, perhaps you will become apprenticed for a trade. There are many possibilities."

Frodo wasn't sure if he could believe the man, as earnest as he seemed. Why would they bother with all that trouble, when it would be far easier to just leave one night and force him to find his own way? Such willingness to help one that has already imposed far too much on their kindness was impossible to accept.

"Frodo, I assure you, we will not leave you without making sure you are provided for," Aragorn said after a long silence, almost seeming to read Frodo's mind.

Frodo only shrugged, remaining unconvinced.

"Please, Frodo, you must give us the names of those who should be contacted first with your whereabouts. What happens after that will be up to them."

Fine. He would give it to them, though he still did not believe it would be that simple. "Give me the letter, and I will write their names on it," Frodo said, sounding defeated.

Aragorn nearly sprang out of his chair to fetch the letter, but was unable to produce a pen or ink. He sent Halbarad to borrow one of each from the innkeep, and told him to hurry in case Frodo changed his mind.

Frodo wasn't going to change his mind, but he certainly was losing his nerve. He'd intended to send it straight to Saradoc and Esmeralda, since they were his official guardians, but then he wondered if it would be better to simply address it to the Master of the Hall and hope it got passed along to whomever might care. Except that none of them would care, and that was just the point -it didn't matter who received it initially, word would spread like wildfire through Brandy Hall and soon everyone would know, but nobody would do anything about it. They would just talk about him and speculate what he had been up to for all those months.

Then Halbarad returned with the implements, and his time for dallying was up. He leaned over close to the bedside table to write, and hastily addressed the confounded letter -Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck, Brandy Hall. He put the pen down and tried to stop the shaking in his hands.

Aragorn picked up the paper once the ink had a chance to dry, and read it with interest. So those were the mysterious relatives! The names seemed so innocuous, yet to Frodo they seemed almost dreaded. "Thank you, Frodo," he said, folding the paper again. "I will write my part and send it on its way."

Frodo nodded numbly, knowing it was only a matter of time until the negative response was received. He did not know what would become of him after that, but he was fairly certain he would have preferred to simply die and end this misery long ago. Even the prospect of learning a trade held no interest, when before he knew he would have been curious and desired it as something to occupy his time. Now he just wished he no longer had to worry about occupying his time.

* * *

Just over a fortnight had passed since their arrival in Bree, and while Aragorn was now certain of Frodo's eventual physical recovery, he worried about the lad's mental state. He took no interest in anything put before him, not even food (which was most unusual for a hobbit). He remained listless and moody, prone to bouts of irrational anger and sullen brooding, sometimes interspersed with times of utter despair. Though Frodo no longer spoke of it, Aragorn could see he still questioned why he yet lived, not seeing the use of his continued existence.

Especially since he thought none of his relations would want him. Well, that remained to be seen, but the proof would only come after the letter was sent. So Aragorn ventured out of the small room the next cold Foreyule morning to see that it was delivered, and to try to find something that might pique Frodo's interest in the meantime. After all, it was nearly Yule, and Aragorn wanted to make it as enjoyable as possible for Frodo despite all that had recently befallen him.

After giving the letter to Butterbur and emphasizing that it must go out with the next Shire Post rider that came through, Aragorn stopped by the tailor's shop to see if Frodo's clothes were ready yet. They were, so Aragorn made his way to the market with a brown paper package in hand, feeling rather accomplished.

But when he began strolling amongst the stalls, he realized with a sinking heart that he had no idea what Frodo might like. He couldn't even rely on the lad wanting any of the usual Yule treats, with him refusing food as often as he could. But perhaps treats would be tempting enough to get Frodo eating normally again . . . it was worth a try. More confident now, Aragorn moved through the market, searching for food that might appeal to Frodo while not overtaxing his stomach.

Several hours later, Aragorn bore a number of small packages and intended to purchase a few more things in a few days so they would still be fresh for Yule. But it was all just food, and Aragorn wanted to find something that would occupy Frodo's attention for longer than it would take to eat. Then he spied something promising . . .

Aragorn returned to the Horse and Wagon just before dusk, triumphant. For the first time in a very long time, he was anxious for the commencement of Yuletide festivities.


	20. Chapter 20

Frodo knew something was up when Aragorn returned from his day out, appearing very pleased with himself and, worse still, was inordinately cheerful. The very next morning Aragorn decided it would be a good idea for Frodo to start getting up and out of bed for periods of time, in preparation for his relatives coming to take him home. He expected it would take about a week for the letter to be delivered, read, and responded to, so he thought it conceivable Frodo's relatives would arrive in Bree within a fortnight.

Frodo disagreed -the Man was underestimating the speed of the Shire Post and overestimating his relatives. He expected the letter would be delivered within a few days, but did not anticipate a response. They wouldn't bother responding to him, and especially not around Yule . . . the letter would likely be ignored completely.

But he supposed getting up wasn't such a terrible idea -at the very least it would break up the monotony that was his existence. Now he would add getting up to his routine of sleeping and brooding.

When all was said and done, Frodo wasn't certain what he'd expected to happen -perhaps he thought this would go like the other day, when he walked around a bit when the barber had been there, but it wasn't like that at all. Aragorn cautioned him to be slow and careful, but Frodo, upon sitting up on the edge of the bed without problem, thought he would be fine.

Except that when his feet were on the floor and he was standing up, he was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness that made his vision go dark and the sound of Aragorn's suddenly concerned voice seemed miles away. He was too far from the bed to grab it for support -besides the fact that if he tried to grab it, he would surely fall over- so he clung to the sounds he could hear and used them to pull himself back to full awareness. Aragorn was holding his shoulders, repeatedly calling to him and asking if he could hear him, until Frodo finally snapped, "I could hear you the entire time."

"You nearly fainted."

"I noticed," Frodo retorted. "Are you going to let me go?"

Aragorn released his hands. "If you are too unsteady now, we can continue this later," he offered.

"I'm fine now. Did you intend for me to go somewhere specific, or should I just wander aimlessly about the room?" Frodo questioned with some sarcasm.

"I thought you might like to sit in one of the chairs before the fire," Aragorn responded evenly, not reacting to Frodo's tone. "If you make it to the closer chair and back again, that should be more than sufficient exercise for the time being."

Frodo considered going to the farther chair just to be contrary, but decided it would only encourage the Man in this foolishness, so he plodded to the specified armchair. Aragorn had to bring the step stool from next to the bed so he could climb into the chair himself, and once he was there, he began feeling some parts of him objecting to the strain after so much disuse. Frodo curled up on the chair, resting his head on the arm, and watched the fire's flames a while.

Aragorn watched Frodo closely during the trek halfway across the room to the pair of armchairs in front of the fire, but the hobbit was steady on his feet and only slightly hesitant in his gait. He scrambled up onto the chair without trouble, and seemed perfectly happy to rest there. Aragorn thought he looked more peaceful while staring into the fire, but it may have been that Frodo was beginning to fall asleep. "If you sleep there, you will hurt for it," Aragorn said gently.

Frodo sighed and yawned. "You'd make me get up and walk all the way back just to sleep?" he asked, pouting.

"I won't make you," Aragorn said. "I am simply informing you that if you do not wish to be more sore than necessary, you will want to return to the bed to sleep. Those chairs are not made for sleeping in."

Grumbling, Frodo sat up and rubbed his face before gingerly sliding down and standing for a moment in front of the chair. After sighing heavily again, he trudged back to the bed, then had to wait for Aragorn to bring the stool back before climbing into bed. He curled up again, and took a nap until Aragorn woke him for lunch (which he didn't want, as usual).

Later that afternoon, Aragorn had him try again, and this time his vision didn't go quite as dark when he stood. The next day and the day after that followed the same pattern, so Frodo wasn't at all surprised when Aragorn had him get up and walk to the far chair around mid-morning several days later.

But this time, once Frodo was settled in the chair, Halbarad appeared from behind him and laid a lumpy grey sock across his lap. "It's the first day of Yule," Aragorn said simply by way of explanation.

Bewildered, Frodo eyed it cautiously before touching it lightly. It looked like one of the socks Aragorn had put on him that one time, and it was stuffed full of something, with the top tied closed with a bit of twine.

"Go on, open it," Aragorn urged, grinning.

Frodo pulled at the lopsided bow, but the twine knotted and refused to be untangled, so he ended up simply pulling it off the top of the sock in one piece. With the opening unloosed, things began spilling into his lap, and he inspected them one by one. At the top was a small sack of dried apple slices, followed by several small sacks of nuts, one of roasted peanuts, and some that Aragorn identified as almonds, cashews, and pecans. After that was a formed ball of popped corn wrapped in waxed paper; Frodo would look forward to eating that! Below the ball was more waxed paper packets, one of taffy pieces and another of chewy bits of ginger candy (Frodo only knew it was chewy because he sampled one).

At the very bottom of the sock, forming the 'foot,' were a firm red apple, a soft yellow pear, and a round orange object that Aragorn simply called an 'orange.' Frodo eyed it warily, sniffing it and squeezing it as if that would force it to reveal its secrets. Aragorn laughed at his caution and offered to peel it so Frodo could try a piece. Frodo agreed, and watched with fascination as Aragorn began pulling the thick skin off, explaining that the skin wasn't edible, but the inside fruit was good to eat or to squeeze for juice. He held up the skinned fruit for Frodo's inspection, and Frodo took it to feel the difference. He squeezed it experimentally, and jumped in the chair and dropped his popped corn ball on the floor when the orange squirted juice into his eye. "It doesn't like me," Frodo asserted, pushing the fruit back at Aragorn as he rubbed his eye.

"You just aren't used to these," Aragorn chuckled, and pulled the fruit apart into its little segments on a plate. "Try it," he said, offering a segment to Frodo and eating a piece himself to demonstrate.

Frodo took it cautiously, and hastily put the entire piece into his mouth. He chewed slowly, then swallowed and ventured a small smile. "It's not bad," he said and took another piece.

"Just watch out for seeds," Aragorn advised. "We also have some gingerbread cookies for you -we didn't want to crush them in the sock." Halbarad put the cookie plate on the table next to the orange, and Frodo leaned over to see. The gingerbread was cut into person-like shapes and decorated with icing to have brightly-colored vests and curly hair on their heads and feet. "Gingerbread hobbits," Aragorn said with a wink.

Frodo couldn't help but grin and take one, biting into it eagerly. He hadn't gotten very far when his face wrinkled with distaste and he hurriedly swallowed. "Orange before gingerbread doesn't taste good," he said, coughing slightly.

"I should say not!" Aragorn replied, unable to hide his amusement, and he rose and brought Frodo's glass of water over.

Frodo hurriedly gulped most of its contents. But now he had a dilemma . . . orange or gingerbread? Evidently he couldn't have both at the same time, so which should he choose? He alternately looked at each plate, pondering, then reached a decision. More orange now, and gingerbread later. Crisis averted, he contentedly sat back in his chair and finished the orange.

Aragorn watched Frodo, pleased that the gift of seasonal food was having its desired effect of inducing Frodo to eat of his own accord. And for now it seemed he would not have to worry about the hobbit overindulging, as Frodo had only finished the orange before lazily putting everything back into the sock so he could rearrange himself more comfortably and start to doze. Aragorn let him be for a while, fully aware by now that Frodo periodically required time to himself in order for him to be most amiable when interaction was necessary.

After a time, Aragorn picked up the dropped ball of popped corn and roused Frodo, handing him the ball. "You dropped this earlier. Now, would you like to have lunch here in the chair or back in bed?"

Frodo quickly took the ball and stuffed it back into the sock, then sighed. "I don't know," he said, shrugging. "It doesn't matter much to me." Then he abruptly changed the subject. "Where did I leave the cookie I started?"

"It's right here on the plate," Aragorn said and watched as Frodo sat up, retrieved the cookie, and began munching contentedly. "Perhaps you ought to have lunch in bed so you can take a nap after -you look quite tired."

Frodo nodded in agreement, licking his fingers of the last traces of cookie. "I would almost prefer a nap before lunch," he admitted.

"It would be better to eat before, then if you're hungry when you wake, you can have something else from the sock," Aragorn suggested.

Frodo tilted his head in thought, then agreed. "All right." He carefully got down from the chair, one hand clutching the sock as it dragged behind him, and slowly crossed to the other side of the room. "Is this one of the socks I had to wear?" he asked as Aragorn put the footstool in place for climbing into bed.

"Yes. But it was washed before being used for this purpose."

"Good. I did wonder," he admitted, allowing Aragorn to tuck him in and place the sock onto the table beside the bed. "What are you going to make me have this time?"

"Soup with beef and vegetables. You've moved up a step from plain broth."

"How wonderful," Frodo replied sarcastically, but accepted the mug without further comment. No matter what he might say, he was grateful his normal food now included something he could actually chew, so he made his way through the provided portion with reasonable speed. And now he really was tired . . . he was asleep almost before he finished lying down.

Aragorn kept a careful eye on Frodo for the remainder of the day, to be certain the additions to his diet would not cause any problems, but Frodo continued to be in good spirits and in no visible distress during the evening. With that worry assuaged, Aragorn could only hope tomorrow's gift would be as well received.

* * *

Frodo tried not to get his hopes up the next morning, really he did, but he couldn't help but wonder if he would be given something today, as well. He scolded himself, saying there was no reason the Rangers had to get him something for the first day, so he couldn't expect more from them -especially after all they have done for him already. But he still couldn't entirely squelch the anticipation.

As was now routine, Aragorn had him get up and walk a bit around midmorning; today he had him go to the end of the bed away from the fire, cross the room from there, then finally end up at the chair. It was farther than usual, but Frodo managed it without too much trouble. Then he was again seated in the chair, waiting anxiously to see which argument would be proven correct.

Aragorn let him sit awhile before quietly approaching and placing the rectangular package on the hobbit's lap. Frodo looked up at him quickly, as if making sure the package was truly intended for him, then returned his attention to the parcel.

Frodo's heart pounded and he felt he could barely breathe as he surveyed the package, trying to determine what could possibly be in that shape, that size, that weight. The plain brown paper wrapping and string weren't providing any clues, so he pulled at the string until it fell away and gently pushed aside the paper. What met his disbelieving eyes did take his breath away.

Two books, bound in leather, their titles stamped neatly on the front cover: Tales of Hobbits on one, and Tales of Men on the second. He ran his fingers lightly over the leather, feeling the imprint of the titles, and at last dared to open one cover just a bit to see clean, smooth paper with neat, even lines of words dancing across the pages.

Frodo felt tears crowding behind his eyes, and quickly pushed the precious books to one side as one droplet broke free. He sniffled, resisting the urge to wipe his nose on his sleeve, and looked up to see Aragorn still standing in front of him, watching him with a mixed expression. Frodo carefully slid the books onto the table beside the chair, then knelt and threw his arms around the Man's chest, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you," he whispered, and Aragorn patted his back.

"I thought you could use some diversion," Aragorn said lightly, but his words did not entirely mask the slight gasp of pain wrung from him by the hobbit's embrace.

Frodo drew back then. "Did I hurt you?" he asked worriedly, quickly dropping his arms to his sides and looking quite crestfallen.

"I have some sore ribs, and you managed to find them," Aragorn said dismissively. "I am fine."

Frodo was confused. "When did you hurt your ribs? You have carried me and never said anything."

"It was after we arrived in Bree, and I can carry you without pain as long as I am careful. It is only unexpected movements that are a problem."

"I'm sorry," Frodo said, then grew contemplative. "How did you hurt them? I thought you spent most of your time here."

"I do spend most of my time here," Aragorn replied vaguely, and Halbarad laughed from his bedroll along the wall behind the chairs.

"You might as well tell him," Halbarad chided, and Aragorn sighed.

"Do you remember when we first arrived and you were ill?" he asked, directing the question at Frodo.

Frodo nodded, not yet grasping the point.

"When I tried to examine you for the first time while you were still sleeping, you . . . would not have it. You struggled and I was injured while trying to restrain you."

Frodo could vaguely remember that, but he nodded. Halbarad chuckled again. "What he's trying to say is that you finally kicked him as you had been threatening to do all along. And you did a good job of it, too."

As Halbarad's words sunk in, Frodo's face flamed with embarrassment and his jaw dropped in horror. "I . . . I injured you?"

"One rib broken and three cracked," Aragorn sheepishly admitted. "But it was not your fault. You were not aware of your surroundings."

"I am truly sorry," Frodo whispered, mortified.

Aragorn crouched to meet Frodo's eyes. "You are not to blame. It was my own doing." But Frodo did not appear convinced, and Aragorn sighed. "Come here," he said, sitting on the floor and patting his lap. Frodo reluctantly came and gingerly sat on the Man's crossed legs. "Frodo, please believe me that I do not hold you responsible for my injury."

Frodo said nothing.

"Besides, you warned me many times that I had it coming," Aragorn joked, but Frodo did not so much as crack a smile, so he changed tactics. "Promise me that you won't blame yourself for this."

"But I hurt you!" Frodo said in a small voice.

"Unintentionally, yes. You were ill and unaware and I put you in a position that you felt you had to defend yourself, and rightly so. What you have been through has understandably made you wary, even in sleep, and that is not something you should be apologizing for. Rather, I should apologize to you for putting you in that situation."

Frodo silently absorbed this. "You were just trying to help," he objected.

"Yes, but I did not think about the consequences of my actions. So promise me you won't blame yourself for this."

"All right, I promise," Frodo said at length.

"Good. Now, do you like your books?"

"Oh, yes," Frodo sighed happily.

"I was uncertain for a while, with the reaction you had," Aragorn confessed, relieved.

"It's just . . . I have always loved to read, but I have never owned a book of my own before, and the books I did read were always old and falling apart . . . it is hard to believe those nice, clean, new books are mine," Frodo explained haltingly, wanting to make sure Aragorn understood. "Thank you," he said again, sighing.

Aragorn smiled. "I am glad you like them," he said. "But perhaps I should let you go back to them for a while . . ."

Frodo looked up at him with obvious pleasure. "Oh, yes," he replied as he started to clamber out of Aragorn's lap.

Aragorn helped him up, and watched as he quickly settled in to reading one of the books, wholly absorbed in the words before him. He was extremely pleased with his luck in finding such an appropriate gift, and he felt certain the two tomes would be an appreciated diversion.

After a moment of observing Frodo, Aragorn had another idea. Quietly he fetched the food sock from the table beside the bed and settled it onto the table beside Frodo instead. It took a good ten minutes for Frodo to notice, but when he did, he looked up, grinned, and one hand abandoned the book to delve into the sock. The hand emerged with one of the small sacks -the one with the dried apple slices, judging by the look of what Frodo was cautiously testing with a tiny bite. Then Frodo brightened and the rest of the slice disappeared, and he returned his full attention to the book -Aragorn wasn't sure which he'd chosen to read first- with the apple sack in his lap.

Frodo remained happily ensconced with his book for the next several hours, taking a short break for lunch only at Aragorn's insistence. But eventually he began yawning and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Perhaps it is time for you to return to bed for a while," Aragorn suggested.

"But I haven't gotten as far as I'd like," Frodo said despondently. "I think I'm out of practice."

"That is entirely possible. If you are not careful, you are likely to give yourself a headache."

Frodo closed his eyes a moment as if thinking, then replied, "I think I already did."

"Then it is definitely time for you to rest. I insist."

Frodo frowned, but closed the book reluctantly and carefully placed it atop the other on the table. "I can read more later?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. That is the entire point of giving you the books."

"Good. Then I suppose I could use a little nap."


	21. Chapter 21

After Frodo's nap -which lasted well into the evening- and his dinner, Aragorn brought him the book he'd been reading -Tales of Men, Aragorn noted- and Frodo read contentedly until he nearly dropped the book when he drifted off for a moment. This time he needed no encouragement from Aragorn to put the book away and sleep.

When Frodo next awoke, he almost immediately reached for the book without even opening his eyes. Empty table met his hand, so he blearily dragged his eyes open to find where the book had gotten to. It was no longer on the table beside the bed. He then peered across the room and thought he saw the edge of the book on the table beside the chair. Frodo sighed.

"You should be sleeping," said Halbarad's soft voice from beside the fire.

"What is the time?"

"Not yet dawn. Even Aragorn is sleeping."

Then Frodo noticed the soft snores from the other side of the room and resisted the urge to laugh. He yawned instead and snuggled deeper into his pillow. "Oh. All right." He fell silent and, truth be told, he was asleep again before he acknowledged to himself that he was still rather tired . . .

When the hobbit did not speak again, Halbarad rose and stood beside the bed, watching him slumber. As Aragorn had warned him, Frodo became restless and agitated after a time, so Halbarad fetched their next gift and tucked it into bed beside the small sleeper. Frodo almost immediately sensed the addition, his expression changing from concerned to curious as he latched on to the stuffed dog that was at least half as tall as he was. Upon feeling that this new presence was not a threat -if a stuffed toy ever could be a threat!- Frodo calmed and hugged it as his movements stilled and he descended deeper into sleep, seeming to rest far easier than before.

Aragorn joined him at the bedside. "Does it seem to be helping?"

"It does," Halbarad answered softly. "Truthfully, I had not noticed before now that his rest was disturbed."

"I cannot claim to have noticed much, either -I had only an inkling that something was not entirely at rights. Part of me only assumed he was having recurring dreams of his attack."

"He still could be," Halbarad replied. "But I would assume none of the ruffians were soft and stuffed, so the dog should be able to pull him from those memories to happier times."

"True."

* * *

Frodo woke again late in the morning, this time more than ready to brave the trek to the chair in order to continue his book. A lovely smell greeted his nose and he sniffed appreciatively. Mulled cider. His mouth watered in anticipation. He opened his eyes and sat up, only to realize he was clutching something stuffed that he'd never seen before. He held it out for inspection; it appeared to be a dog, its body made of a soft brown crushed velvet with long, floppy ears, button eyes and nose, and a mouth stitched on to the lighter coloured-fabric that formed its snout. "Why . . . ?" he asked aloud to no one in particular.

Aragorn answered. "You sometimes become upset in your sleep, so we thought it might help you to have something to hold on to. It seemed to do the trick earlier this morning, at least."

"I see," Frodo looked wonderingly at the stuffed toy; he did vaguely remember a bad dream that dissipated into fond memories of his parents.

"If you don't think it suitable for a hobbit your age, we will not be offended. Quite honestly, we are not certain what is appropriate for hobbits at any age," Aragorn admitted.

"No, no, I like it," Frodo said shyly. "My cousins would think it childish of me, but I do like it."

Aragorn was more relieved than words could say. "I am truly glad. Now, if you eat as much porridge as you are given without complaining, we have one last surprise for you."

Frodo looked unconvinced.

"And we will allow you to have some of the cider I'm sure you can smell."

"Deal," Frodo said instantly. He was handed a bowl that contained more porridge than he would have liked, but he supposed he could manage. A few bites in and he concluded it wouldn't be too unpleasant -it was suitably sweetened, and the top was dusted with something he couldn't identify but liked all the same. A little past halfway through, he had to slow down considerably -he was beginning to feel rather full- but the enticing smell of the cider spurred him on. When he finally finished, he flopped back against his pillow and heaved a sigh. "I don't think I shall eat again for a week," he groaned.

Aragorn eyed him with some concern as he took the empty bowl. "If finishing was that difficult, you should have mentioned it. I freely admit I could only estimate how much you were capable of eating. It would seem I overestimated."

By now Frodo was curled up on the bed, clutching his dog in an effort to forestall the need to retch. "It did not seem bad until after I was done," he said weakly. "But I will be all right with some time."

Aragorn nodded. "If you need anything, just say so. I will be nearby."

It took between a half hour and an hour of digesting -and dozing- before Frodo felt he could move without immediately bringing up his breakfast. He sat up slowly and rummaged through the treat sock until he found the ginger candies; he tried one, remembering that ginger was frequently used for stomach complaints, and found it did ease the remaining discomfort somewhat. At least, it was enough that he should be able to read.

Frodo ventured out of bed and, still clutching the dog, crossed over to his chair -he had commenced calling it 'his chair' upon noticing that he was the only one who ever sat in it. Aragorn watched him and obligingly brought the step over, and Frodo clambered into the chair without issue. He started to read, but found he was still uncomfortable enough that his concentration frequently strayed from the words on the page. He closed the book with a sigh and stared disconsolately at the fire.

Then a canvas bag with a drawstring dropped into his lap from above. He looked up to find Aragorn leaning on the back of the chair, grinning. "You might have better luck with this if you're having trouble reading," was all he said.

Puzzled, Frodo pulled the bag open and peered inside. There were wooden blocks in various shapes and a smaller cloth bag tucked along the side. He pulled this out first; it held pieces of stiffened parchment with outlines drawn on each side and marks on the upper right corner. The top cards had one mark, while the ones on the very bottom had five marks.

"It's a puzzle," Aragorn explained from above his head. "The cards have the shape to make using the blocks, and the marks are how hard that shape is, from easy to difficult."

This was promising. He tucked the book along the side of the chair, then kneeled up and dumped the blocks onto the side table. Peering at the top card, he slowly began moving the blocks into position. He almost had it once, but there was an extra piece sticking out one side, so he started over and got it the second time. After a moment of satisfaction, Frodo flipped the card over and started on the next image.

He'd worked his way through a half dozen when Aragorn interrupted his train of thought. "It's about time for luncheon; are you up to eating something?"

Frodo looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before his mind understood that this was discussion now, not puzzles, and he should be answering. "Oh. Ummm..." he said eloquently. He really hadn't paid any attention to his stomach in quite a while, but since he no longer felt like retching and didn't even feel uncomfortable in the slightest, he must be fine. "I think so."

"Promise me this time you'll stop if it gets to be too much?"

Frodo nodded absentmindedly, mentally back with the puzzle and the stubborn piece that refused to fit where he thought it should go. A bowl of chunky stew appeared between him and the blocks with an admonishment, "Eat."

Frodo did so automatically, not really noticing the taste or smell of what he was putting into his mouth. As he was scraping the last bit of meat and potato from the sides and bottom of the bowl, suddenly all became clear. "Aha!" he cried with enthusiasm, pushing the bowl hurriedly aside and rearranging all of the blocks, starting with the one he'd been stuck on earlier. He clapped his hands in triumph when the outline on the page obediently took shape in the blocks before him.

Aragorn picked up Frodo's bowl lest he knock it on the floor in his glee and said, "So you like the puzzle."

"Oh, yes," Frodo enthused, then rubbed his forehead with a slight grimace. "But thinking this hard makes my head hurt, and I'm still on the easiest shapes! I don't know how I'll manage the hard ones."

"Just work your way up to it, and you'll be fine," Aragorn encouraged, patting his back reassuringly. "Perhaps a break is in order? You've been out of bed for several hours already."

"No, I'm all right," Frodo insisted, sitting back in the chair. "I'll just read for a while."

"I'll allow it, but try not to overdo it. You still have much recovering to do, and a relapse would be most disheartening."

"Yes, yes," Frodo said dismissively, already deep into the pages of his book. He read for quite a while, losing all track of time and disregarding anything happening around him until the lovely smell of that cider was suddenly coming from next to him. He lowered the book to see Aragorn carefully setting a sizable mug on the table next to him after moving aside some of the puzzle pieces.

"I thought I'd keep my promise that you could have some cider," Aragorn explained.

"Ooh," was all Frodo could say at first. "But could you give it to me? I don't want to spill it trying to pick it up." He gently placed the book onto the other chair, well out of reach of any errant drops.

"Of course," the Man replied, picking it up and easing it into Frodo's waiting hands, then remained nearby until he was sure Frodo would not lose his grip and burn himself.

He had to use both hands to support the warm weight, but he did not mind one bit. He held it just below his nose for a moment, deeply inhaling the aroma of cloves and spice, before tentatively venturing a sip. Definitely very warm, he would have to be careful not to burn his tongue. Though of all the things he could possibly burn his tongue on, mulled cider certainly wasn't a bad choice! Frodo closed his eyes in bliss and slowly enjoyed his cider. By the time he reached the dregs, the liquid was almost cool, but he savored the last sharp flavors of the cider before finally admitting the cup was, alas, empty.

Frodo set the cup aside with something akin to regret. But the reading so absorbed him again that he was startled and dropped the book when there was a knock at the door. Gently righting the book and re-finding his page, Frodo listened carefully as Halbarad answered the door. He heard the innkeeper's voice and the rattling of dishes; curious, he peered around the edge of the back of the chair to see the innkeep holding a crowded tray and being escorted by Halbarad to the larger table. While he couldn't quite see what was upon the various dishes, the scents were beginning to waft in his direction, and oh, the delights those smells portended!

The innkeep bustled from the room -no doubt he had plenty to do, it being a holiday- and Frodo shifted so he could kneel on the chair cushion and peer over the back in an effort to glimpse what Aragorn probably wouldn't let him have. He tried not to sigh woefully but must not have succeeded, for Aragorn turned and spied him. The man smiled and said invitingly, "Would you like to come over and see what he brought for us?"

Frodo's eyes widened and he nodded. Aragorn had said 'us' -could that mean he would be allowed to partake? It was almost too much to hope after everything else the man had given him. He slowly crept over to the table; Aragorn pulled out one of the chairs and helped him climb upon it so he could see better. The sight that met his hungry eyes was more impressive even than the smells had led him to believe.

Then Aragorn spoke. "If you would like to partake, I will allow you at least a taste of most anything on this tray. Though," he said thoughtfully, "there are a few dishes that might cause you stomach upset, so it would be best to avoid them for now."

Frodo scanned the tray again, this time with an eye to choose what he wished to have. Some of the dishes he knew, like the shepherd's pie and oh! were those mushrooms in cream?, but others he did not recognize. He slowly began to point out what he wished, and in what quantities, with Aragorn explaining which dishes to avoid -evidently the sweet peas with mint and yule goose (and its stuffing) would be too taxing on his stomach right now- and telling him what the strange items were -like the stoved tatties that looked somewhat questionable but sounded rather good. Of everything brought to them, Frodo ended up with bits of milk punch, baked apples, chamomile wine, stoved tatties, shortbread, stew, shepherd's pie, mushrooms in cream (a triple serving, naturally), and some yule cake. Then he knelt down on the chair after Aragorn brought a pillow so he could reach the table, and watched as Aragorn put the last few things onto the crowded plate.

As Frodo surveyed the plate Aragorn set before him, he had to seriously consider how he would embark upon this effort. While the portions Aragorn provided were reasonably small, Frodo was fairly certain he would not be able to finish everything on the plate. Which left the question of if he should go slowly, savoring every bite, without caring whether he finished it all or not, or if he should gulp it down in hopes of eating it all before his stomach had a chance to object.

Upon further consideration, Frodo decided that, while the food would undoubtedly be quite tasty going down, it was highly unlikely to be so if it came back up, so the slow approach was to be preferred. Perhaps if he took long enough, the first bits would have already left his stomach to make room for more . . .

After the better part of an hour, Frodo conceded defeat. He'd drunk all of his beverages -slowly- and gradually consumed the majority of the foodstuffs set before him, and while he really wished he could finish the yule cake and the shortbread, he just couldn't stomach even the idea of eating anything for at least a day. Well, maybe half a day. Or a few hours . . . but he certainly wasn't willing to try more now. All he felt like doing now was curling up in bed in a contented heap and sleeping. Except that his legs from the knee down were completely numb from kneeling on them for nearly an hour.

So first he had to get off them and let them return to his control. Too bad that meant enduring the horrible prickling sensation; he sat on his hands and tried not to move or touch his legs for fear of making the feeling worse. Aragorn came for his plate, then eyed him with some confusion as he made a face to keep from vocalizing his discomfort. "My legs were numb, and now they're not anymore," Frodo briefly explained, and the Man's expression turned to understanding.

"That's never a good feeling," he said sympathetically. "When you're ready to stand on them again, I can help you down. Or I can carry you over to the bed now."

By that point the prickling and tingling was considerably reduced, but not so much that he'd risk standing. "Being carried would be fine," Frodo said, his desire for bed winning out over his desire to be as independent as possible.

Aragorn carefully lifted him, touching his legs as little as he could, and soon had him tucked cozily into bed. "Just let me know when you're hungry again and you can have more. We still have quite a bit left."

More? Oh, he couldn't possibly . . . oh, but the baked apples were very good, and the mushrooms were absolutely delightful . . . yes, he would definitely want more. Later. And so, after a short nap, he had more. And it was delicious.

* * *

Frodo remained quite content with his puzzle and his books and almost always brought the stuffed dog with him to the chair when he got up for the day. He periodically snacked on what remained in the sock -a tally that decreased daily- while Aragorn and Halbarad ensured he consumed enough to satisfy them during the three main meals. Each day he tried to stay out of bed longer and walk just a bit more about the room, so that by the third day after Yule, Frodo could walk all the way around the perimeter of the room -well, the parts that weren't blocked by furnishings, at least, though he steered around those as best he could.

Quite pleased with himself, he settled in to his chair (with his dog, of course) to read. He made decent headway and lasted until after luncheon before the slight headache that had been nagging him reminded him of its presence, only today it was throbbing instead of just aching. He felt pressure gathering behind his eyes, and he rubbed at them impatiently.

"Are you all right?" came Aragorn's voice from across the room. He always seemed to sense the instant Frodo felt even the slightest bit of distress -a most annoying trait.

"Yes, just tired," Frodo responded, yawning. It wasn't a lie -he was tired, as the yawn would bear witness to- but it wasn't the whole truth, either. Frodo decided what Aragorn didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and curled up in the chair for a little nap, the faithful stuffed dog serving as his pillow.

When he woke, he had a distinctly bad feeling about the situation. He was still tired, perhaps even more tired than before, and his head felt hot and stuffed with cotton that pounded on the inside of his skull. He put a hand to his forehead and nearly jumped out of his skin when his hand felt very cold against his face. Oh, dear, this could not be good. The last time he remembered this happening, he'd been ill with a fever and . . . what else was it? A cold? His clogged brain refused to process the memory further, but at any rate, the important part was that he'd had a fever. A relatively high one. Oh, no, not good at all.

He pushed himself up to sitting, and his vision swam until the room seemed to spin lazily around him. He tried very hard to hold back the nausea. Gradually the room stilled, but the nausea worsened as Frodo realized something: this was likely the relapse Aragorn had sternly warned him about if he pushed himself too hard. What would the Man do when he realized Frodo had gone and gotten himself sick again? Oh, it was all his fault! If only he hadn't been so absorbed in the book or in the puzzle, perhaps he would have been better about resting as he should have been . . .

Well, there's no time like the present to rectify that part of the situation. Frodo shakily slid down from the chair, holding on to its arm longer than strictly necessary to be certain he would not fall flat on his face, and he unsteadily went to the bed by the shortest route possible. Not waiting for the Men to notice he needed the stop -by some miracle, they didn't seem to notice he'd moved, so intent were they on whatever they were discussing at the table in the opposite corner of the room- Frodo tossed the dog onto the bed, then gingerly used the frame and mattress edge to scale it like a ladder.

His heart was pounding and he was panting when he finally flopped onto the bed, but he'd made it and without drawing the Men's attention. Perhaps if he just went to sleep, he'd be better by the time he woke and they would never know the difference . . .


	22. Chapter 22

Bilbo had come to Brandy Hall for the Yuletide festivities as usual, but now that the holiday was over, he considered cutting short his customary month-long visit. He'd only been there for a week, but was growing tired of the dull conversation and exaggerated self-importance of its inhabitants. Most of all, he missed Frodo. He felt the lad's absence keenly in the lack of animated discussion at dinner and the silence of the halls . . . young Merry no longer cried for his cousin Frodo, and the adults behaved almost as if the lad never existed, which grieved and angered Bilbo greatly.

Once resolved to take his leave, Bilbo went in search of Saradoc Brandybuck to make his intentions known and was somewhat surprised to find both him and his wife in the family parlor, staring in disbelief at a creased and soiled piece of paper. They did not notice Bilbo standing in the doorway, continuing their conversation uninterrupted.

"What nerve!" Esmeralda said heatedly, glaring at the paper. "I cannot believe he expects us to go retrieve him after all he's put us through. After all we've already done for him . . ."

Saradoc sighed. "If he weren't Primula's son, I would've never taken him in to begin with. But now that he's left on his own, I can't see taking him back. We can't waste more time on him when we have Merry to mind." He shook his head in resignation. "No, he's on his own now."

Bilbo could listen no longer and strode into the room, making Saradoc and Esmeralda jump guiltily.

"Ah, Bilbo," Saradoc greeted him with forced cheerfulness. "I think you'll want to read this," he said, holding out the paper.

Bilbo snatched it from him, seething with anger as a brief glance at the signature confirmed the letter was from Frodo. "You would deny the lad the only home he's ever known?" he asked coldly. "You have treated him poorly ever since his parents died, and now you would have him fend for himself? He's not even a tweenager yet!"

"What would you know about it?" Esmeralda hissed. "That boy is a constant thorn in our sides, a menace and completely out of control! You don't see the half of it -you're only here for a few weeks a year. We have tried everything, everything to get that troublemaker to behave, but he is incorrigible."

Saradoc interrupted his wife's tirade with a cautioning hand and broke in. "You think you can do better, Bilbo? Is that it?"

Bilbo hadn't quite thought of it that way, but now that he mentioned it . . . he straightened in confidence and answered. "Yes, I think I could."

Their looks were incredulous, and it seemed they were fighting to contain their laughter. Saradoc finally said, "All right, go ahead. See if you can get that little monster to act like a civilized hobbit."

Bilbo fought to keep his voice steady. "You are willing to allow me full responsibility for his care?"

"Yes, yes. If you don't change your mind, we can have adoption papers drawn up, fully legal."

Bilbo med his gaze evenly. "I won't be changing my mind, but I will allow Frodo the final decision. Have papers drawn up that cede your responsibility for him to me for one year; we can sign them upon my return. What happens after that will be up to Frodo." He paused, then added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a trip to plan."

He strode from the room, not stopping until he was back in his room. Once there, he closed the door, dropped into a chair before the fireplace, and tried to comprehend what just happened. He'd gone in, intending to leave, and came out with a declaration to adopt his nephew, if Frodo was willing. It was a bit much to sort through, but the sorting could come later. First, he had to fetch the lad. He turned his attention to the forgotten letter in his hand and read eagerly:

_Dearest Aunt and Uncle,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. It is no doubt a surprise that I would write now, after so long a time without any correspondence.In truth, I would not trouble you if it were not for being urged to do so by my hosts. They, being Rangers, have need to return to their normal course of activity soon, and thus can no longer see to my welfare. They wonder if you might consider coming to retrieve me so they are assured I am well cared for in their absence._

_They will enclose details of my whereabouts to facilitate a meeting, as the place we are at the time of writing will not be where we are staying by the time you would arrive._

_Best wishes to you and yours,_

_Your loving nephew,_

_Frodo_

As promised, included in the package with Frodo's letter was a short missive in another hand:

_T__o whom it may concern,_

_Frodo is safe and being looked after to the best of our ability, though he would no doubt fare better in the presence of his family as he has been quite ill. He is at the Horse and Wagon inn in Bree; inquire after a Man named Strider, and you shall be taken to him._

_Wishing you safe travels,_

_Strider_

Bilbo mulled over this for a moment, then went to the writing desk and began jotting notes of what he'd need for the trip to Bree and the journey back with Frodo.

* * *

When Frodo woke he rather wished he hadn't. His head pounded, his body ached, and he could tell his fever had gotten worse by the way his body shivered while his face burned. He vaguely heard Men's voices nearby; he forced his eyes open a crack to see if they'd noticed he was ill, but they were in front of the fire paying him no mind. He closed his eyes again and tried not to think of how upset Aragorn would be when he found out . . . a knot of panic tied itself into his chest and sat there, mocking him. 

A large hand touched his forehead and he jumped in surprise, a movement that was not appreciated by the rest of him and he couldn't help but wince. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you," Aragorn said gently. "How are you feeling? Your fever seems to have come back."

"I feel horrid," Frodo said miserably, then burst into tears. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make myself ill, I promise, I went back to bed as soon as I started feeling bad, I'm sorry, please don't be angry, I didn't think just reading would hurt anything, I didn't mean to make things worse, I'm sorry," he said in a rush, stringing the phrases together one right after another until Aragorn could barely understand what he was saying.

Frodo hiccuped, then clapped a hand over his mouth as he gestured frantically. Aragorn understood just in time and provided the chamber pot as Frodo threw up, his entire body shuddering, tears still running down his cheeks. He retched and gagged until nothing more came up, then he broke into fresh tears. "I'm sorry," he said wretchedly.

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed and let Frodo lean on him and cry on his shoulder as he spoke. "You are not at fault in this, Frodo," he reassured the distraught hobbit. "I should have watched you more closely and been more firm about times to rest. You have been doing well, and I do not doubt you will soon defeat this."

"You're not angry?" Frodo questioned meekly.

"Only with myself for not paying more heed," Aragorn replied, and made a mental note that if he ever should need to comfort a crying hobbit in the future, he should be wearing more than one layer. Or perhaps even his leather jerkin. He tried to ignore the seeping feeling of wetness on his shoulder and returned his attention to the distraught hobbit instead. "Why don't you lie down? Then we will see if we can make you a little more comfortable."

Frodo nodded slightly, then carefully laid back down, his head pounding even more now from being upset. He still couldn't believe Aragorn wasn't angry with him -perhaps he was just saying that to make Frodo feel better? Yes, that must be it . . .

"What is bothering you at the moment, Frodo?"

"My head hurts," he said first, then added, "and it feels too warm. I feel sick to my stomach. And . . . I'm just very tired."

Aragorn nodded. "We can make some willow bark tea for your head. Would you like a bath to cool down a bit?"

"No . . . most of me is too cold to undress. It's only my head that feels warm."

"A cool cloth, then. Do you still have any of the ginger candy? A piece or two might help your stomach."

Frodo had to think about that. "I might," he said uncertainly. "I don't remember if I finished it or not."

"We will look for it, then. And perhaps once we get everything settled you will be able to sleep for a while."

"That would be nice," Frodo said wistfully.

Within a rather short period of time, the tea was steeping, a gloriously cool cloth was perched on Frodo's forehead, and the remaining ginger candies had been retrieved, with one being consumed at that very moment. Frodo did not like having to sit up again to drink the tea, but he supposed it couldn't be helped -he would make a mess of things if he tried to drink lying down, that was certain. By the time he finished it, having gone very slowly in consideration of his stomach, his head was feeling a bit better, so it seemed the effort was worthwhile. A fresh cloth was provided when he was again prone, and he was able to drift off to sleep.

Aragorn watched him sleep for a while, pondering what he'd said in his earlier distress over becoming ill again. Either Frodo had abandoned his wish to die or he had been reprimanded in the past for becoming ill. Based upon what little he'd said of his life with his relatives, Aragorn would not be surprised if the latter was true. Though he also remembered telling Frodo to be careful not to relapse -perhaps he'd been too harsh in his warning, if Frodo's panic was based upon not wishing Aragorn to know he was feeling poorly. Aragorn sighed and shook his head. Evidently he still had much to learn about interacting with hobbits.

* * *

Frodo was forbidden to leave the bed until Aragorn was certain it wouldn't cause yet another worsening of his condition, and was even restricted from reading for the time being. For his part, Frodo was amenable to this . . . for about a day. After a full day's of rest he was feeling much improved and wished to at least be allowed his book back -he was willing to concede that he did not yet feel equal to the task of getting up again.

Aragorn eventually allowed him to read, but Frodo quickly found his headache would not yet permit him to do so in comfort. He said the book aside with a sigh as he slumped against his pillow. He looked so dejected that Aragorn felt compelled to come over and see what was the matter. "Reading makes my head hurt," he said mournfully, hugging his dog tightly.

"Would you like your puzzle instead?"

"I don't think that would work, either," Frodo replied with a frown.

"A nap, perhaps?" Aragorn suggested.

"I'm not that tired," Frodo objected.

That was a problem. What else could be done? Ah, an idea. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Frodo brightened almost immediately. "Oh, would you? That would be lovely."

"Of course. Just allow me a moment to bring a chair." While Aragorn pulled one of the wooden chairs from the small eating table to the bedside, Frodo snuggled down into his covers and eagerly waited. Once Aragorn was settled, he picked up the book from the bed and started to open it. "Shall I start where you left off?"

"Please. Halfway down the left page marked by the ribbon," Frodo directed, and Aragorn quickly found the spot. He began to read and soon ascertained the current story was a retelling of the tale of Aldarion, the sixth king of Numenor, and Erendis, his wife, though the details were not quite the same as the tale he'd been told in his childhood. His eyebrows rose as he read and by the end he was rather disturbed by the mangling of the story, particularly the ending -this book made it seem the tale had a cheerful end! How appalling. Aragorn was about to voice his concerns regarding the veracity of the rest of the book's stories, but Frodo was sound asleep.

So the Man took some time to page idly through the rest of the book, periodically stopping to read passages more closely to see how divergent this version was from what he knew. Some parts were close or virtually identical to what he'd learned -which must have been the correct version of the story- while others varied wildly. When he reached the end he had to concede it wasn't all bad, but he would need to ensure Frodo knew to take the tales with a grain of salt. As he put the book onto the table next to the bed and spied the other book, he wondered if some of the hobbit stories were incorrect also. He would have to ask Frodo later.


	23. Chapter 23

Bilbo approached the inn with some trepidation, uncertain what he would find within. The letter said simply that Frodo had been ill; how ill? Was he even still alive? He had come as quickly as he could, but had needed to delay a day longer than he wished to negotiate the use of a cart to bring Frodo back, and even then he had to agree that it would follow him to Bree after the Brandybucks were finished with it. And what about these Rangers who cared for him -would they expect some sort of repayment for their efforts? What sort of name was Strider for a Man?

The Horse and Wagon looked much the same as a Shire pub, except that everything was bigger. Soon enough the innkeep noticed him and asked his business; he must have answered, for he found himself standing alone outside the door to a Man-sized room as the innkeep retreated with a curious look. Bilbo's mind was a blur until the door opened and there appeared a solemn Man clad in green and brown but unarmed.

"My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I am looking for Frodo," Bilbo stated simply, pulling himself up to his full height and trying to look more dignified than his worn travelling garments would normally allow.

The Man's face relaxed -could he actually be relieved?- and he gestured for Bilbo to enter. "I am Strider, known to Frodo as Aragorn. I presume you received Frodo's letter?"

"Indirectly, yes. It went first to some other relations, whom I was visiting at the time . . ." he trailed off as he realized this line of conversation would get him nowhere useful. "Where is Frodo?"

Aragorn waved toward the large bed in the corner. "He is resting right now," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he and Bilbo approached the bed. "Come, let me take your cloak and pack so you can be more comfortable."

But Bilbo had already climbed onto the chair and gingerly transferred himself onto the bed, only allowing Aragorn to take his things once he was settled next to Frodo. He cradled Frodo's hand tenderly, then reached to touch his face gently. "Poor boy," he murmured, taking in the wan face with obvious sadness and weariness carved into lines there, the fragile-feeling hand with bones sticking out much too sharply, and the limp way Frodo lay there, his chest even barely seeming to move.

Bilbo sat, rubbing Frodo's hand between his own, taking in what he saw and dwelling on what it might imply, until Frodo grew more restless and tried to pull away. "Frodo," he called softly, leaning forward to caress Frodo's cheek again. "Frodo."

Frodo grew quiet again, then his eyes started to flutter open.

"Dear boy," Bilbo said gently, squeezing his hand.

"Uncle Bilbo?" he murmured disbelievingly. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. Or he was dreaming. Yes, that was it, he was dreaming.

"I'm here, Frodo," Bilbo confirmed.

He said the only thing he could think of. "Why?"

"I've come for you, to take you back-"

"-to Brandy Hall." Frodo finished bitterly and started to pull his hand away again.

"No, Frodo. To Bag End, though we will certainly be making a stop at Brandy Hall on the way." He stopped, then felt compelled to add, "You're coming home with me, Frodo. You can recover there, and if you decide you like it with me, well, then we'll make it official."

Frodo's mouth opened but no words came out. At length he whispered, "I don't have to go back to Brandy Hall?"

"No, you don't, if that's what you decide." Then he amended with a wink, "Well, I'm sure you'll be expected to visit once and a while, but you won't have to stay longer than you wish."

The edges of Frodo's mouth curled up even as his eyes filled with tears. "I thought you didn't want children about," he said, bewildered.

A smile ghosting across his own face, Bilbo replied, "I am willing to eat my words for the sake of a certain exceptional hobbit. And mighty tasty words they'll be, too."

Frodo closed his eyes against the tears threatening to spill, overwhelmed by what he was hearing. "I . . . I don't know what to say," he said, his voice threatening to break.

"You don't need to say a word," Bilbo answered soothingly, squeezing Frodo's hand and feeling his own hand squeezed in turn. "But I think you need to sleep some more, dear boy, or we'll never manage to leave this inn!"

Frodo choked on a laugh and nodded. "I will," he said, his eyes already drooping.

Bilbo waited until Frodo was fast asleep again before turning back to the Man, who had retreated to sit at a table on the other side of the room. "When will he be ready to move? I have a cart coming that should be here in a few days, but he looks like he'd fall over if he took one step."

Aragorn nodded. "He is still very weak, but your presence, I deem, will do much to hearten him. He has been languishing with only Men's care to assuage him."

Bilbo rubbed Frodo's hand one last time before sliding off the bed and crossing to where Aragorn sat. "What exactly was wrong with him?" he asked bluntly.

Aragorn chuckled. "At which point? I'm afraid Frodo has endured much."

Bilbo sighed and shook his head, bemused. "Trust the lad to always step in the deepest muck," he said fondly, then turned brisk and settled himself on one of the chairs at the table. "Well, then let us start at the beginning! I know he ran away around Midsummer, saying he was going to visit me. When we came to realize he had disappeared completely. many searched for him for nigh on a fortnight. After that most of the Buckland hobbits were unwilling to waste time searching for 'that mischievous boy' and I could not gather enough hobbits to continue much of a search. So I hired hobbits to gather any information they could on where he could be."

He shook his head in bemusement. "Frodo knows how to hide far too well; my lookouts never found a trace of him. As the months went by, we thought-" his voice choked and he had to compose himself before he could continue. "We thought he was dead. No word, no sign of him, so the only thing we could think was that he'd not survived."

Bilbo bowed his head and worried his handkerchief with restless fingers. "I wanted to believe he was still alive somewhere, though I didn't know how, so once winter set in I began planning to venture out myself come spring to see what I might find out about Frodo's whereabouts. When I went to Buckland for Yule, I hoped to persuade some of the Brandybucks to help me, but they were not receptive. Then as I was about to return to Hobbiton, Frodo's letter arrived and my hopes were confirmed: Frodo was alive." He smiled ruefully. "So I'm here, which is part of another long story I won't go into."

Aragorn nodded. "I encountered Frodo near the beginning of November, after two of my men saw him lying in the forest, hungry, thirsty, and near frozen. If they had not seen him, I have no doubt he would not have survived even two more days. We took him to a cabin we periodically frequent in the northern Chetwood, and there cared for him until his condition became serious in the beginning of December. We risked bringing him to Bree, and have remained here since."

Bilbo looked at him keenly, recognizing that there was something the Man wasn't saying. "So Frodo has been ill that entire time."

"In a manner of speaking," Aragorn allowed. "I would rather Frodo tell you certain parts of his story himself, as I do not know how much he wishes his loved ones to know."

"Fair enough," Bilbo acknowledged, then changed the subject. "It seems to be nearing teatime; have you anything I could eat? I'm starving."

* * *

Less than a full day after Bilbo arrived, Frodo already seemed markedly better both in health and in spirit. Aragorn was pleased at this development and said as much that afternoon when

Frodo woke from a nap. "Bilbo's presence does you good," he commented.

Frodo yawned and looked suspicious. "I am glad he came," Frodo said cautiously.

"Why, then, did you object so strongly to sending that letter?"

"I did not think he would even see the letter, much less be the one to come," Frodo said honestly.

"If he is your favorite relative, why did you not send the letter to him?" It was a question that had been troubling Aragorn since Bilbo's arrival, and this was an ideal time to ask, as Bilbo had stepped out for a pipe and a 'bit of fresh air' while Frodo slept.

"He did not want to care for children when my parents died, so I did not know he would want me now. I am still . . . confused about his change of heart," Frodo replied soberly. "I constantly fear he will change his mind back."

"I do not think he will," Aragorn assured him quickly.

"Does he know what happened to me?"

"I told him only that you have been ill, and that you would provide details if you chose but I would not divulge them," Aragorn said slowly.

Frodo nodded sadly. "So he could still decide he doesn't want me."

Aragorn patted his hand gently. "I doubt he would turn you away, no matter what you decide to tell him."

Both of them looked up as the doorknob turned and Bilbo appeared in the doorway. "Ah, you're awake!" he said to Frodo jovially. "You're looking much better than yesterday already, my dear boy."

Frodo smiled a bit at that. "I'm afraid I don't smell any better than I did yesterday," he said ruefully. "I could use a bath." This last was directed at Aragorn, who nodded.

"A bath can be brought," he said briskly. "Would you like it now or this afternoon?"

"Now would be nice," Frodo said cautiously.

"Of course," Aragorn answered. Halbarad, who had been sitting quietly on the other side of the room studying a map, left to request the tub and water, which was brought without delay.

Frodo eased himself off the bed and surveyed the steaming water, testing it with a finger before sighing in satisfaction. He started to pull his nightshirt over his head, but stopped long enough to say, "Don't look," before pulling it quickly off and clambering as rapidly as he could into the welcoming warmth.

Bilbo laughed heartily. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, Frodo lad. You forget I changed your nappies when you were a babe!"

Frodo froze halfway into the water. "You did?" he asked meekly.

"Of course I did! Your father was one of my favorite cousins, so there were many visits both ways when you were small."

Frodo sat down with a small thump, dazed. Aragorn handed him a cloth and a bit of soap; Frodo began washing himself out of habit, for his mind was elsewhere. If Bilbo had changed his nappies, he knew about Frodo's . . . oddity.

Then Aragorn spoke. "Then perhaps you can answer a question for me."

"I can certainly try," Bilbo chuckled.

"As we were caring for Frodo in his illness, I could not help but notice he possesses some . . . female features as well as what he should have as a male. Is that common among hobbits?" Aragorn was almost hesitant to ask, but was too curious to resist.

Bilbo had to pause and consider how to respond. "It is not unheard of, but it is not common," he said finally. "It occurs more frequently in the Brandybuck family, and is considered extremely rare outside of that."

Frodo, listening from where he had sunk down nearly all the way into the water from embarrassment, noted absently that Bilbo was sitting in what he considered 'his' chair. He looked so small, sitting there, and Frodo thought he must appear even smaller and perhaps was almost swallowed by the cushioning.

"Interesting," Aragorn said thoughtfully.

"According to the stories, lads so endowed bore babes like the lasses, but that was long ago, before the Brandybucks settled in the Shire. No one knows if they still can, and there hasn't been any want or need to find out."

Frodo dropped the soap with a splash and felt slightly faint. He felt both Aragorn's and Bilbo's eyes on him, and heard Bilbo ask, "What's the matter, lad? You look pale."

"N-nothing, I'm fine," he stammered. "I think I'm about finished, though."

Aragorn rose from his seat on the floor and held up a towel for Frodo to use. Frodo stood shakily and did not resist when Aragorn wrapped him, arms and all, in the towel and carried him over to the bed, setting him on the edge. He watched as Aragorn brought over that red shirt.

"We'll send your nightshirt to be washed, so this will have to do for now," Aragorn explained as he settled it over Frodo's head. At Frodo's dubious look he added, "It has been washed since you last wore it, do not fret." That did reassure him, and he let Aragorn help him don the too-large shirt after patting his skin dry.

"Would you like something to eat?" Aragorn asked him. "Nothing much, of course, but we have some bread and cheese and some seedcake your uncle brought."

"I suppose I could eat a little bit of seedcake," Frodo answered reluctantly.

"Do you want it here or do you want to go sit in a chair?"

"Come sit with me, Frodo," Bilbo said invitingly, patting the cushion beside him. "There's more than enough room in this monstrosity for the both of us."

"All right," Frodo said, sliding onto the floor and going over to Bilbo, who helped him climb up and settle next to him, curled up and leaning against his side. Aragorn brought him his piece of seedcake and Frodo nibbled it slowly, wanting to say something but not sure what it was that he was so anxious to say. Eventually he asked a question instead. "Why don't they need to find out if . . . " he wasn't sure how to ask, but Bilbo seemed to understand.

"Having babes is a dangerous business, and lasses can easily die in the process. Before the Brandybucks settled in the Shire, the lasses were dying frequently because the conditions were so poor. The lads who could then also began to bear babes, so the family line would continue. Now that most hobbits are happily settled in holes and houses, safe and secure, there is no need for the lads to have babes like the lasses."

"Oh," Frodo responded, then added softly, "But they still can, or at least, I did." After he said it, he flushed with embarrassment and hoped Bilbo didn't hear.

But, of course, he did. "Pardon?" was his flabbergasted response, and he tried to look down at Frodo, but Frodo buried his face in Bilbo's shoulder. "Lad, tell me what happened to you!"

Frodo hurriedly stuffed the rest of his seedcake into his mouth so he wouldn't have to answer right away, then tried to pull away from Bilbo so he could get down from the chair and escape the predicament he'd put himself into. But Bilbo held him tightly and he had to surrender to that iron grasp.

"Frodo, do you want me to tell him for you?" Aragorn asked gently, leaning over from the other chair to touch Frodo's shoulder lightly.

Frodo shook his head, then nodded, then shrugged; he was of several opinions on the matter and most of all wished this hadn't come up. "N-no," he said finally, reluctantly. "I should probably do it." He sighed, searching for the best place to begin, and decided to start with the end result and fill in the details only if Bilbo asked. "I had a babe at the end of November," he said flatly, then cringed as he waited for Bilbo's reaction.

"My dear boy," Bilbo said almost immediately, rubbing Frodo's back soothingly. "You are far too young to have to deal with that!" Then something occurred to him, and he sounded fierce. "Frodo, tell me how this came about. Did one of your cousins do it to you?"

"What? No! No, it wasn't any hobbit," Frodo replied to reassure him, but realized afterward that the way he said it was likely to make matters worse.

It seemed Bilbo had forgotten how to breathe. "Not a hobbit?" he said faintly. "Then how . . . ?"

So Frodo had to start from the very beginning after all, and gradually Bilbo coaxed the entire story from him. By the time he had finished telling his tale this second time, he was shaking uncontrollably and hardly able to hold back his tears. Bilbo hugged him close, murmuring reassurances and patting his back; after a while, Frodo wasn't sure if he was crying about what had happened to him or from utter relief that Bilbo wasn't pushing him away even after hearing everything. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Bilbo held Frodo until the lad had cried himself dry, then gently urged him to sleep a bit and promised he'd feel better for it. Frodo obeyed without argument and climbed into bed and seemed surprised when Bilbo followed him over, sat in the chair beside the bed, and held his hand as he fell asleep. Truth be told, Bilbo couldn't imagine doing anything else -poor Frodo had been through more than anyone three times his age should have to bear, and he wanted to reassure the lad any way he could.

Aragorn came to check on both hobbits a little while later, and Bilbo confided mournfully, "I don't know if I'm more upset with our relations for allowing this to happen to him, or with myself for not taking him in earlier and preventing all this in the first place." Aragorn had no answer, so he remained silent. Then Bilbo spoke again. "What became of the babe? Frodo did not seem to remember much beyond that he was taken to a family."

Aragorn explained the situation with Peony and Mahlon, his tale interspersed with questions from Bilbo until the hobbit was satisfied and chuckled. "How perfect," he said with pleasure. "You must allow me to send something to them." He hurried to his pack and dug around a bit, eventually pulling out a velvety bag that clinked. He loosened the drawstring and fussed with the contents, selecting a few choice coins that he slipped into a smaller sack. The smaller sack was then presented to Aragorn. "If they ask, it is from a relation in the Shire."

"A relation, hm?" Aragorn replied, tucking the sack into a safe place in his belongings. "And if they try to refuse?"

"It is a long-overdue Yule gift from a cousin of Peony's," Bilbo said dismissively. "That should be sufficient."

"Are you, in fact, related to her?" Aragorn asked, bemused.

"Quite possibly. Most hobbits are related in some way, it's just a matter of tracing the family tree back far enough."

"I see." He was learning more than he ever thought possible about hobbits.


	24. Chapter 24

Bilbo was pleased when he learned Frodo had been gifted books for Yule. He soon had Frodo reading aloud to him so he could help correct his pronunciation of the strange names and get a feeling for the lad's knowledge at that point. For his part, Frodo showed an excellent comprehension of the stories when he read silently, but he frequently stumbled over words when trying to read aloud. "I know what they are, but I don't know how to say them," he griped frequently. Bilbo was always quick to assure him that it was something they can fix with time and practice and indeed, Frodo quickly caught on to the words Bilbo helped him say.

When Frodo was tired of muddling through the stories of Men, Bilbo would have him read a bit out of the Hobbit book, since the names were more familiar and he was more likely to have heard the other words before. After all, every hobbit knows what a hill is, but it is the rare one indeed that is familiar with mountains!

One afternoon between afternoon tea and dinner, Frodo finished reading a story of the hobbit archers who had gone to fight in a battle with Men and their great deeds while they were there. When he stopped, Bilbo sighed happily. "That was a good tale."

Aragorn, who had been listening curiously as Frodo read, looked over at the hobbits. "Is it true, then?"

"Is what true?" Bilbo replied, perplexed.

"The tale."

Bilbo shrugged. "I've heard it said that they never made it to the battle, or fought and did not make it back to the Shire, or fought and were all killed. This is the best ending I've heard so far."

"So it doesn't concern you that it might not be true?" Aragorn persisted.

"Why should it? It's a story, nothing more! And each storyteller is free to make what adjustments he will, especially if he has something important to say."

"What is accomplished by changing a tale to have a pleasant ending when it really did not?"

"It becomes more suitable for young ears," Bilbo observed blandly, with a not-to-subtle glance in Frodo's direction. Frodo watched the debate with wide eyes, listening intently.

"True enough," Aragorn conceded.

"Of course, all of our stories contain a grain of truth, and when a hobbit matures and is ready to hear the full truth, they are told. If, that is, they are even interested in the old stories by then. Many aren't. But those of us that are bear the responsibility to tell others so the full truth is not lost."

"I see."

The lull in the conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Aragorn hurried to answer it and beheld a hobbit in travel-stained clothes, nervously fingering a woolen cap. The hobbit's eyes widened when he beheld the Man and suddenly the curly tops of his dirty feet merited close scrutiny. "B-begging your pardon, sir," the hobbit stammered, "I-I'm a-looking for Mr. Bilbo Baggins."

Aragorn took one step back and gestured to Bilbo. "Bilbo, a hobbit here to see you."

Bilbo's face was creased in confusion until he saw the hobbit. "Ah, Carl! Did your mistress finally have nothing else for you to do than come and fetch me? I've been here a week already!"

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Bilbo." The hobbit was still abashed, but seemed relieved that was confronted only with the familiarly intimidating presence of Bilbo Baggins. "M-mistress Brandybuck was insistent that I take the last of the relations home before we could do as you asked."

"I don't blame you, Carl, do not fret," Bilbo assured him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Do you mind if I come and see that the wagon has all I asked for?"

"That would be fine, sir. I'll take you there right away."

Bilbo retreated into the room to find his coat and cloak. "I will return as soon as I make certain all is in order," he said to Frodo, who nodded. At that the older hobbit was out the door in a swirl of grey cloak and the door shut firmly.

Aragorn watched Bilbo leave thoughtfully. If the wagon had arrived, the only thing between Frodo and a return to the Shire was his health and continuing recovery. He sat on the edge of the bed and his eyes swept over Frodo critically -Frodo had closed his eyes to wait for Bilbo's return and was not aware of his gaze, or he would have been uncomfortable.

The lad was looking much better than he had, but he also did not look quite well. He still tired easily, and would feel feverish and nauseated if he tried to do too much. But at the same time, his condition was good enough that he should be able to handle travelling reasonably well, as long as the pace was slow. There was a pang in his heart at the thought of finally giving Frodo over to the care of his kinsman, but he acknowledged it must happen sometime so he might as well accept it.

When Frodo finally opened his eyes and peered at him quizzically, he asked, "Are you ready to go back to the Shire?"

"Sometimes I think I am, but sometimes I'm definitely not," Frodo admitted softly.

"That is to be expected," Aragorn said reassuringly. "But you should know that I see no reason you cannot go as soon as preparations are completed. As long as you do not overexert yourself, travelling should not pose a problem. Though, of course, you will need to finish recovering when you arrive at your new home."

"My new home," Frodo said to himself, wonderingly. He could still hardly believe Bilbo was taking him to Bag End, and he had no idea what to expect it to be like. It had been long since he'd last visited Uncle Bilbo in his home, perhaps since before his parents had died -after that, Bilbo visited Buckland instead of the other way 'round. And he almost dared not to try to imagine how it would be, for fear of being disappointed by reality.

Bilbo soon returned, quite satisfied. "The wagon has plenty of cushions and blankets for you, Frodo, so the journey should be fairly comfortable. When we're ready, we just tell Carl to bring the wagon over and we'll be on our way."

"Where is he staying?" Aragorn inquired.

"The Brandybucks have an agreement with one of the other inns, so the wagon and Carl will be housed there as long as we remain here. And I do not mean to sound over-eager, but . . . how soon will Frodo be well enough to travel that distance? The last thing we want is him becoming ill again."

"He could leave tomorrow as long as he does not over-tax himself. I told him so while you were out."

"Splendid!" Bilbo exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. "Frodo-lad, don't feel you must agree to leave immediately. I want you to feel ready before we go anywhere. We're in no hurry, after all."

Frodo nodded slightly. Bilbo's reassurances aside, the fact that the timing of their departure rested solely on his say-so made him uneasy. How was he supposed to know when he felt ready? He'd felt virtually the same for the past several days -did that mean he was ready?

The dilemma troubled him all night, and in the morning he confessed his concerns to Bilbo. Bilbo hugged him, patting his back, and said, "If you are uncertain, then we will simply pick a day to leave. How does the day after tomorrow sound?"

"That would be fine," Frodo answered, relieved by Uncle Bilbo's suggestion.

"I agree," Aragorn added, having been listening to the hobbits' conversation. "And we will make sure you are well-provisioned before your departure. Is there anything specific you would like us to obtain?"

"Oh, some seedcake would be nice, and that good, hard cheese that is common in these parts, and if there's any more of those roasted nuts Frodo was telling me about . . ." Bilbo had begun rattling off his mental list, but trailed off as both Aragorn and Halbarad began to look slightly dazed. "Perhaps it would be better if I accompanied one of you to market?" he suggested.

"Yes, that would be most helpful," Aragorn quickly replied. "When would you like to go?"

"Tomorrow would be best, I should think, so everything will be fresher. Yes, that would do nicely," Bilbo said happily. The rest of the day was spent in the same manner as the previous days, but Frodo found his appetite was not up to what he was given for meals -he was admittedly rather nervous at the prospect of the journey back to Buckland and what might happen after. Bilbo seemed to understand, and began telling him tales of Hobbiton and its inhabitants to make him laugh and feel more at ease with the whole idea. At length, Bilbo began talking of his neighbors and who Frodo would be meeting when he came, including the gardener and his family. "The youngest is about the age of your cousin Merry, I think," Bilbo said thoughtfully. "Some of the older ones are very close to you in age. You should get along splendidly."

"Are there many hobbits my age in Hobbiton?" Frodo asked timidly, not certain if he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

"A handful, I should think. But I haven't paid close attention, so I suppose you'll just have to find out," Bilbo said, chuckling.

"I suppose so," Frodo said quietly, trying to decide if that was something he would look forward to or not. It was impossible to tell yet if the Hobbiton teens and tweens would be quite as . . . difficult to get along with as some of his Brandybuck relations.

"Don't worry, you'll make many friends," Bilbo assured him gently, seeming to sense Frodo's mood.

"I hope so" was Frodo's only response as curled up beneath the bedclothes and began to drift into a nap.

Bilbo patted Frodo's shoulder and hoped he was right, for the lad's sake. It might have been too much to expect, but Bilbo sincerely hoped making some new friends his age would help Frodo return to his old self after so many bad experiences. Only time would tell.

Aragorn watched Bilbo comforting Frodo and was pleased at how the situation had resolved itself. That Bilbo truly cared for Frodo was plain to any who watched the two interact, and Aragorn found himself quite confident that Frodo would fare well in his new home. Even so, he regretted he would not be able to see Frodo completely recovered -he would have greatly liked to see the true nature that had been lying hidden beneath so many layers of fear and misery.

After Frodo woke from his nap, Aragorn had him rise and walk about the room for a few turns, suggesting that it would be a good idea for Frodo to roam so more often to try to prepare himself for the journey. Though as Aragorn watched Frodo retire tiredly to bed later that evening after having gone three times around the room on three separate outings, he had to admit the exertion was also to ensure Frodo would sleep well despite his lingering anxiety about returning to the Shire. Bilbo made a cryptic comment about Men being as devious as hobbits, but seemed thoroughly approving of his actions, so Aragorn did not pursue the matter.

The next day he and Bilbo paid a visit to the Bree market for supplies and foodstuffs. Between the two of them, they secured at least three times what would probably be needed, there being a silent mutual agreement that if it might ease Frodo, it should be obtained regardless of cost and convenience. Aragorn only hoped Bilbo would not have to tempt Frodo into eating as he'd had to do; he had not told the older hobbit of that particular difficulty, though he recognized it might be wise to do so.

When the purchases were made and deliveries arranged for the larger items -Bilbo having bought an entire cask of cider and several pounds of the fruits and roasted nuts Frodo had enjoyed on the first day of Yule- the mismatched pair turned their steps back to the Horse and Wagon and Aragorn told Bilbo of Frodo's previous refusals to eat or generally comply with what was best for him. To Aragorn's surprise, Bilbo was not surprised, and related in turn the lad's melancholy after his parents died, turning away food, drink, avoiding the bath, and evading all attempts to soothe him. Much of what Bilbo said explained the behavior Aragorn had seen, and he understood Frodo's reactions much better by the time they reached the inn.

Frodo eyed them suspiciously from his chair when they returned, cheerful as larks, wondering what they had been up to that could possibly make them so pleased, but neither Aragorn nor Bilbo said anything so he returned to his book. Aragorn made him walk around the room at least a handful of times that day, and while Frodo did not like being prodded into activity in that manner, he supposed he could understand why it was being done. Except that it gave him time to brood about what might happen when they arrived back at Brandy Hall . . . or about how Hobbiton would be and if he would like it . . . somehow Frodo doubted that Aragorn had even considered what he might be thinking about while he had to trudge his little circuit around the room.

Packing and other advance preparations commenced that evening, and the butterflies multiplied ten-fold in Frodo's stomach. Despite his weariness from the trudging -and, truth be told, from the anxiety that plagued him- he did not sleep well and was groggy and surly when Bilbo woke him around dawn. He reluctantly dressed himself, donning the clothes Aragorn had gotten for him for the very first time, and he had to admit they fit rather well, if a bit loosely. All three of the others stopped their preparations long enough to comment on his attire, and by the time Bilbo told him that he looked very smart he wanted to just shuck the clothes off and burrow back into bed.

Breakfast was a thick porridge, eaten as the opportunity arose. Frodo, having been forbidden to do anything to help pack, had nothing to do but perch on the edge of the hearth, slowly consuming his share of porridge and watching a flustered Bilbo trying to do five things at once between packing Frodo's meagre belongings, packing his own things, eating breakfast, admonishing Halbarad for packing the food wrong when the Man tried to help him, and trying to find out if Carl had the wagon ready yet. It was almost amusing, or would have been if he had not been the cause of it. For now Frodo simply felt guilty for causing so much bother.

Despite the apparent chaos, it was barely a quarter of an hour before Bilbo's and Frodo's things were stowed aboard the wagon, yesterday's purchases were secured, and the four of them were standing outside, awkwardly trying to say good-bye. Bilbo helped Frodo climb into the back of the wagon, where he was at eye level of the Men if he stood. Frodo stared at his feet, anxiously worrying the mittens Bilbo had lent him rather than look Aragorn in the face while he tried to figure out what to say.

Aragorn broke the silence. "I am glad to see you well and in the care of one who loves you," he said softly. "I hope all goes well for you when you arrive at Bilbo's home."

"Thank you," Frodo whispered. Then, dispensing with his doubts, he abruptly hugged the Ranger as tightly as he could manage. "Thank you for all you've done." Aragorn returned the hug gently but firmly, rubbing Frodo's back as the small hobbit trembled in his arms.

After many moments thus, Aragorn drew back slightly and looked him in the eye. "I hope you mean that truly, for there was a time not so long ago that you wished I had left you beneath that tree," he said gently.

"I do mean it," Frodo said, almost surprised to realize that he did, indeed, mean it truly.

Aragorn smiled, then stepped away. "Good."

Frodo then hugged Halbarad briefly, thanking him as well for his help, and Bilbo helped him sit in the cocoon of blankets and cushions he and Carl had arranged for him. As Bilbo tucked him in, Carl started the ponies, and the wagon jerked before settling into its creaking rhythm. Aragorn and Halbarad waved briefly from the yard at the inn; Frodo waved back almost desperately, then the wagon turned and they were gone from sight and Frodo felt almost bereft.

As if sensing Frodo's upset, Bilbo settled next to him and slid an arm around him, gently prodding him to lean on his uncle's shoulder. He eventually obliged and let himself savor this moment of being cared for -and yes, even being loved. So this is what it felt like to be wanted . . .

* * *

A/N: There is an epilogue coming as well, just so you're aware. The story isn't quite over yet! ;) 


	25. Epilogue

A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to review this story; special thanks to the consistent reviewers: Mikesh, A, and M; and other repeat reviewers: OrlandosLover2009 and snarryvader81. Thank you also to those who reviewed once or twice -every review is greatly appreciated and treasured. Posting stories wouldn't be nearly as much fun without the reviewers!

Without any further ado, I present the conclusion of "Burden". :)

* * *

One week out from that wretched watchtower, Frodo found himself of two distinct minds about the situation. On the one hand, he was grateful that he was still alive. He knew how close the blade had come to his heart, how close he came to perishing that night on the hill. On the other hand, being very much alive also meant that he was very much in pain, which Frodo did not like very much at all. Cold agony haunted him at every moment of every day, sometimes even robbing him of clear sight, and he could hear and feel the wraiths close by. A shriek pierced his ears and grated on every nerve, and Frodo looked quickly to see if anyone else heard it. 

The other hobbits were still sound asleep where they had collapsed next to the fire; it must only have been his imagination, then. He shivered and hunched over a little further, trying in vain to absorb the fire's heat into his frozen body. He leaned more heavily against the packs piled behind him -he'd insisted he did not need them for support, but Sam and Merry insisted in turn, and now Frodo found himself grateful for the forethought.

Abruptly a presence appeared next to him, and Frodo whipped his head around to see who it was, jolting his shoulder with new pain. He gasped, and heard Strider's voice say, "I'm sorry if I startled you."

"It is all right," Frodo said, shuddering still.

"Are you warm enough?" Strider asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"I cannot tell," Frodo replied honestly. "The wound is as ice; I feel nothing else."

"In that case, I will check."

Then Strider's hand was on his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his ears, the back of his neck . . . he must have passed inspection, for Strider asked, "Where are your hands?"

Frodo produced his right hand; they both knew his left hand would be frigid, so why bother to check? Strider nodded and tucked his hand back under the blanket he was wrapped in.

"Now where are your feet under there?" Strider asked with amusement in his tone.

Frodo wiggled his toes enough to move the blanket, and as Strider bent over him to touch his feet, Frodo felt a distinct sense of having done this before. He wracked his brain for any memory where anything similar happened to him, and suddenly it came to him: it was that time so very long ago when he fell into the care of two Rangers of the North.

As Strider sat back -part of Frodo's mind concluded his feet must have been fine, since the Man wasn't digging through his pack for socks- Frodo watched him closely, examining his face for any hint of resemblance. Could it be . . . ? "Aragorn?" he whispered in disbelief.

Strider held his gaze for several silent moments before nodding. "Yes, it is I. You have remembered."

"It is not that I forgot," Frodo retorted. "I have not had cause to think about that for a very long time. You are more scruffy now than you were then."

Aragorn laughed at that. "The years have been long and not always kind," he allowed.

Frodo sat back a bit, his mind in a whirl. "Why didn't you tell me who you were from the beginning? I would have trusted you far more readily."

"I deemed it better to remain silent. These are dangerous times; you cannot always trust even those you know. And I did not want to assume that your companions would be familiar with what occurred before, or it would place you in an awkward position."

"I had not thought of it that way," Frodo admitted, "and I thank you for the consideration. They know only that I was outside the Shire for a time, and Bilbo brought me back. They know not why I left, nor would I burden them with that knowledge." He gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping hobbit forms. Aragorn handed him a steaming mug of something, which he accepted without question. He sipped it -chamomile tea- and spoke slowly. "What has become of him?"

"They named him Milo for a relative of Peony's," Aragorn began. "He strongly favours you in appearance, though he is a good head taller than you are now. He has been managing the family's farm in Mahlon's place for some years now, and has been doing very well. He is courting a hobbit lass from Archet, and Peony expects they will be wed once he has come of age."

"In two years," Frodo said dreamily, a faraway expression on his face as he tried to imagine his nearly-grown son. Then a thought occurred to him. "Why is he running the farm in Mahlon's place? What happened to Mahlon?"

"He was killed in an accident when Milo was fourteen. Times were hard for them for a while, since he was too young at that point to handle everything on his own. Fortunately, Bilbo sent more money than usual that year, and they were able to last the year with only a bit of 'skimping and scraping,' as Peony called it."

"Wait, what does Bilbo have to do with them?"

"While you were still in Bree, he insisted I tell him who was caring for your child so he could send a gift in appreciation of their generosity. According to Peony, a certain sum of money has arrived every year to this very day. The year Mahlon died, for some reason Bilbo sent twice the usual amount."

Frodo choked and nearly spit out the last of his tea, his shoulders shaking.

"Frodo? Are you all right?"

His choking had resolved itself into chuckling. "Oh, that wily old hobbit! 'Poor cousin Peony', indeed!"

"Frodo?" Aragorn questioned, not understanding what the hobbit was babbling about.

"For years before he left, Bilbo would send some money to "poor cousin Peony". When I asked, he said she was an extended relation spurned by her family and such, so he sent her a bit every year to help with things. After he left, I continued the tradition in his stead. The only exception was the year he left, when I came of age. I sent more as my birthday present to this mysterious relation." He began chuckling again. "I'd always assumed this was something he did even before I came . . . I had no idea where the money was actually going!"

Frodo fell silent for several minutes, and when he spoke again his voice was sober. "It is a comfort to know he is well and happy. He will likely be my only child." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I fear I will not survive this journey."

Aragorn did not respond at first. Then he said, "That you did not perish while in my care previously speaks to your hardy constitution. Combined with your indomitable will, I should think there isn't much that can defeat you for long."

"Perhaps," Frodo said evasively, then shuddered, the distraction of the conversation no longer sufficient to draw his mind from the pain and chill of his shoulder. Aragorn wordlessly moved closer, then lifted Frodo into his lap, leaning the hobbit's good shoulder against his chest and tucking his cloak gently around the small form. Frodo felt a little warmer almost immediately, an improvement that allowed the pain to recede enough to be manageable, and leaned his head against Aragorn's shoulder as he tried to relax.

"Better?" Aragorn asked, his breath ruffling Frodo's hair slightly.

"Enough," Frodo replied, then sighed. "Was I ever really in danger of dying during . . . before?"

"If the birth had gone badly, you could have. When you were ill after the birth, there was a period when your fever was high enough we feared we would lose you if it continued any longer, but I never had serious fears for your physical health. Your mental health, on the other hand . . . I was very concerned that you would simply lose the will to live."

"What about now? Am I in danger of dying now? It sure feels like it, sometimes . . ."

"So long as the shard remains inside, you are in danger of it reaching your heart, though death would be better than the fate that would befall you if that were to happen! I will not lie to you, Frodo: your condition is serious, but so long as you resist their call to give in, so long as you keep up your strength to continue on our course, I have hope the lord Elrond will be able to help you."

"I will try, but I fear my efforts will not be sufficient," Frodo said faintly.

Aragorn rubbed his back and said encouragingly, "All I ask is that you try. Just rest, and let me worry about what will happen if your strength fails before we arrive. I promise I will do everything I can to help you."

"I know," Frodo said sleepily, "You have always cared for me."

"And so I shall continue, for as long as our paths should cross," Aragorn promised.

"I am grateful, but I feel such a burden on you and the others," he confided.

"You are burdened by a grievous wound and a difficult task; it is my choice and pleasure to help you bear these burdens."

"Truly? You want to help me?"

"If I did not want to help you, I would have let you leave Bree on your own. In fact, I would have left you beneath that tree all those years ago."

Frodo sighed, unaccountably relieved at his words. He was certain the Man had expressed a similar sentiment before, but hearing it now, when he was again utterly at Aragorn's mercy and goodwill, was reassuring beyond what he could describe. And he knew the other hobbits would be equally insistent on the point, if not more so.

He did not deserve such love and friendship. But he would accept it and cherish it, for there was nothing better to see him through what he must face ahead.


End file.
